


Christine's Christmas Present

by ncfwhitetigress



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Redemption, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29404104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfwhitetigress/pseuds/ncfwhitetigress
Summary: Two years have passed since the burning of the Opera Populaire and Raoul and Christine have since exchanged vows, but all is not well. The vicomte's love for his bedridden wife compels him on a quest to restore her passion for life and music, even if it leads him to butt heads again with an old rival. Meanwhile, old enemies are gathering. A tale of love and redemption.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Raoul de Chagny & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13
Collections: Phantom Of The Opera Fics, Phantom of the opera





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the 2004 movie version of Phantom of the Opera. There are some elements inspired by Leroux’s original work, the 1990 novel Phantom by Susan Kay, the 1999 novel The Phantom of Manhattan by Frederick Forsyth, and from the original musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber as well as its little-known sequel Love Never Dies, but none of those works are treated as canon in this story. I encourage you, the reader, to imagine Erik’s singing as your favorite Phantom voice. I’m particularly fond of John Owen-Jones.

**Author’s Note** : This story follows the 2004 movie version of _Phantom of the Opera_. There are some elements inspired by Leroux’s original work, the 1990 novel _Phantom_ by Susan Kay, the 1999 novel _The Phantom of Manhattan_ by Frederick Forsyth, and from the original musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber as well as its little-known sequel _Love Never Dies_ , but none of those works are treated as canon in this story. I encourage you, the reader, to imagine Erik’s singing as your favorite Phantom voice. I’m particularly fond of John Owen-Jones.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

With a scream of fury, Erik found himself pressed flat against the chainlink fence, his right arm twisted behind his back. “Bastard!” he raged, pinned there helplessly. The unmasked side of his face scraped against the thick wire as he tried to catch his breath. He could not stand the feeling of being at someone else’s mercy. Only in his nightmares was he drawn back to such situations as they had occurred in the past. Thanks in part to that and to Christine’s betrayal, he trusted no one save Madame Antoinette Giry and her daughter Meg Giry at the current time.

“Not at all, my parents were happily married for decades before they passed last year. Now, tell me your name,” his assailant’s breathless voice demanded, twisting the masked man’s arm to get his point across. “I know it isn’t Phantom or Opera Ghost. I want your real name.”

As Erik gasped and heaved from the ferocity of their battle _“Ow…”_ was all he managed to murmur in reply. His heart began to race as the ache in his arm grew. He knew his shoulder joint could give way and dislocate any moment at the vicomte’s volition.

“I don’t think it’s ‘Ow’ either and I’m running out of patience,” Raoul decreed. While he had expected Christine’s Angel of Music to possibly put up a fight, he had underestimated its fervor. The Phantom had pierced him through the shoulder with his rapier before Raoul had managed to disarm him, much like in their first sword fight. Now, Raoul had his wounded shoulder pressed between Erik’s shoulder blades both to prevent the man’s escape and to stem the bleeding.

“You crossed the Atlantic just to find out my name?” Erik asked in an incredulous voice.

Raoul shook his head. “No. I told you what I came for, but you refused to believe me. Your name is what I’m asking for right now,” he replied impatiently, glancing behind them to the thin white snow that was disheveled from the long battle. Though it was long past nightfall and the boardwalk was empty, there were dark spots leading to their present location—drops of Raoul’s blood. He kept Erik’s arm pinned with his left hand as his right went to find the hilt of the rapier at his hip. _Shwing!_ came the metallic sound as he withdrew his sword from its sheath.

The Phantom glanced over his right shoulder with a hint of panic in his eyes and Raoul grinned as he held the shining blade up in full view. “I won’t ask you again,” he warned.

Erik clenched his teeth. “You’d kill me for refusing to tell you my name?” he inquired worriedly.

Not in the mood for a game of questions, Raoul quickly debunked the Phantom’s erroneous assumption with the flat of his rapier as it struck harshly against the backs of his captive’s thighs. Somewhere in the course of their fight, the masked man had lost his winter cape when he had tried to throw it at Raoul to blind him, leaving himself little padding from the blow.

The burning pain came as a complete shock to Erik. Never in his wildest dreams could he have anticipated the vicomte’s intentions with that rapier. He shrieked in pain and humiliation and tried to swing his skull back to head-butt Raoul’s forehead in retaliation.

The ploy worked in the sense that the blow hit and the vicomte cried out, but failed in that it was not enough to knock him away. It only made Raoul angrier. He drew his head up and brought a second blow with the blade to strike half an inch below but parallel to the first, evoking another howl from the Phantom. “Stop!” Erik cried, his voice exploding into multilingual obscenities.

The profanity did nothing to help him escape Raoul’s clutches. “Your name! Tell me your name!” Raoul ordained, drawing his brows in anger. He held the rapier in position as a threat.

Erik tried to spit at him. “Go to hell, Vicomte. I don’t take orders!”

The next blow of the rapier cracked like a whip and was easily heard over the chilling wind. Erik’s knees buckled as he roared in pain and fury. Raoul slumped with him to the snow-covered ground, keeping him pinned to the fence all the while, and let him curse himself to exhaustion.

The Phantom was practically foaming at the mouth when Raoul raised the blade again. The former’s eyes widened in terror. _“Erik!”_ he suddenly shrieked, squeezing his eyes shut in fearful anticipation. He could not bear another blow. In the past decades, he had become accustomed to living life free of beatings. Hence, he no longer possessed the grit of his youth when he had been forced to travel with the circus freak show. He felt his pride shatter when he finally yielded to the vicomte’s demand. Instead of letting the loss bother him too much, he reminded himself that Raoul could not keep him pinned there forever. With any luck, he would have his chance for revenge soon. He was going to kill Raoul if and when he ever got free from him.

“What?” came the vicomte’s voice loud and clear. Raoul could hardly hear what the Phantom had said over the whistling wind in his ears. “What did you say?” he asked.

The captive made a face behind the mask before shouting again with greater clarity, “Erik!” The wind picked up then and nearly cut him to the bone. Without his cloak, he would surely freeze if Raoul kept him there much longer. “Now, will you let me go? What else did you want? Hurry, I don’t have all night!” he cried over the sound of the wind, starting to shiver.

Raoul grinned in triumph. They were finally getting somewhere in this exchange. “No surname?” the nobleman probed casually as if he had all the time in the world. He could feel his adversary lightly trembling against the icy chain link fence and thought to use it to his advantage.

Erik blinked and begrudgingly added, “Destler.” He was thankful when the windchill began to numb the throbbing pain in his thighs, but he was beginning to quiver terribly. He tried to glance around, wondering where his cloak had gone. Unfortunately for him, the vicomte’s body was blocking the view. He glared at the rapier in Raoul’s hand hatefully. “Well? I gave you what you wanted. Will you put that d-damned thing away already?” he bit out through chattering teeth.

Raoul shook his head as he re-sheathed the blade. “You should learn to ask nicely, Erik,” he calmly replied, reaching into his own warm cloak. He pulled out a cloth and pressed it to the Phantom’s mouth and nose firmly before the man could even protest, holding them in place against his struggles which soon weakened as he fell unconscious. Raoul hefted Erik over his uninjured right shoulder, grunting at the strain. On his left shoulder, it felt like the bleeding had come to a stop as the blood on his shirt froze solid from the windchill. He covered it with the cloak to protect it from the cold and carried Erik back to where his landau lay in wait.

The Vicomte de Chagny had brought two liveried manservants with him from France, Luc Boucher and Rémy Millard-Paquet. Luc was driving, so it was the husky Rémy who opened the carriage door for Raoul. “Are you injured, Monsieur?” Rémy inquired, receiving a light nod.

“I’ll be alright,” Raoul ensured, “but I might need a doctor to look at it. I pursued him up to the boardwalk and confronted him there. Go find his cloak and rapier. The sword has a skull design on the guard,” he explained, hefting the Phantom of the Opera into the carriage. Though there was blood in the snow, he wanted to leave the Coney Island visitors with as few clues as possible to what had transpired. He climbed into the interior himself and sat beside Erik’s slumped form, drawing some blankets over his adversary and then some over himself as well.

Rémy rushed off to do his bidding and returned with the requested items in a few short minutes, though it felt like forever to the vicomte. Raoul’s nerves were a wreck and he wanted nothing more than to return to his rented private villa post haste and warm up by the hot wood-burning fireplace before deciding what to do next with his new prisoner. It was between early and mid-November and it looked like a serious snowstorm was about to start when Rémy returned from his quest with the Phantom’s possessions and boarded the carriage, handing them to Raoul.

The portly man with a curly mustache looked at the slumped Phantom across from him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension on his face. His eyes fell upon the white porcelain mask. “Monsieur le Vicomte, if the Opera Ghost is unconscious, then I wonder if I might…”

“No,” came the vicomte’s blunt reply as he set Erik’s cloak aside. He gave no explanation as he closely scrutinized the Phantom’s rapier. It was very well made. Raoul wondered if Erik had made it himself. He seemed like such an expert at everything, why not add blacksmithing to the list? A strong gust of wind struck the carriage, causing it to rock from side to side slightly. This got the vicomte’s attention as he peered worriedly out the window at the storm.

Rémy hesitated. “Quite right. I beg your pardon, Monsieur.” He paused to look out the window himself. “Some winter they’re going to have. Hardly into November and already, this.”

“We’ll be back in France soon enough,” Raoul indicated. “It shouldn’t be quite so cold there. Indeed, I have heard that New York City winters can be absolutely brutal.”

Again, the trusted manservant’s eyes fell nervously upon the porcelain mask. Rémy gulped slightly in the back of his throat. “How can you be sure he won’t wake up before we get back to the villa, Monsieur le Vicomte? Would it not be wise to bind him? This man has killed people! I so hate to risk my life when I’ve got a wife and children back home in Chagny.”

“If he tries to hurt anybody, I will make him wish he was never born. I do not fear him and I’d advise you not to either. He can smell fear. He got along all those years terrorizing the Opera Populaire, but now he had better learn new ways to relate to people or else.”

Rémy stared at the vicomte with a surprised look for a few moments before he nodded. It was ten minutes before they arrived at the stable outside the villa. Erik began to stir and Raoul quickly chloroformed him again without even thinking about it. Luc rushed off to take care of the horses and Rémy ran to unlock the front door and stoke the fire back to life in the main room.

Raoul took his time to haul the Phantom out of the carriage and lug him inside. His shoulder hurt from the fight, so he carefully dumped Erik on the fur rug in front of the fireplace the first chance he got. “More wood,” he instructed as he hung up his cloak and began to unbutton his white blood-stained shirt, tossing it down on the hardwood floor when he was through to examine his wound. He shivered at the whistling of the wind outside as it whipped the sides of the building.

Rémy continued to fan the flames after adding a couple small logs in response to Raoul’s order. The fire quickly grew to emanate its heat all around the room. Luc finally got in a moment later and stared fearfully down at the Phantom of the Opera before walking over to assist the vicomte. “It looks like nothing more than a flesh wound, Monsieur. Best to disinfect and wrap it in clean linen bandages,” he advised, going to gather some supplies from the open kitchen.

Holding his shoulder lightly, Raoul sat down on the soft rug next to Erik’s unconscious body to warm up by the fire. He breathed out a sigh as Luc returned with bandages and a bottle of alcohol, hissing when the alcohol stung his wound. Then, reluctantly, he held up his arm so Luc could wrap the injury. The servant secured the loose bandages with pins, keeping a spare eye on the Phantom as he worked. “He’s not going to bite you,” Raoul remarked, causing Luc to flinch in surprise. “Like I told Rémy, he is a man of flesh and blood, not a ghost or a thing that goes bump in the night. You should not fear him, Luc. He does not deserve your fear.”

Luc nodded. “Oui, Monsieur,” he replied shortly. He was not the type to prod or stick his nose where it did not belong. He just did his duties and kept quiet, which is one of several things Raoul liked about him. Luc picked up the soiled shirt and went to get a fresh one for the vicomte as Raoul frisked Erik for any weapons or tools that might help him escape. There were plenty to be found. It seemed the so-called Opera Ghost kept a complete arsenal of lock picks, pocket knives, and other such gadgets and gizmos on his person at all times. His black boots had to be removed as they came with razor-like blades that popped out of each toe. Lastly, Raoul replaced the masked man’s cleverly disguised utility belt with an ordinary black leather one.

Raoul put the items aside and dug around in a fireside barrel for a decent length of rope. He found what he was looking for and bound Erik’s forearms together elbow to elbow and wrist to wrist. He used a series of knots and loops all the way up, keeping them snug but not tight. He repeated the routine with the man’s calves, tying them together all the way from knee to ankle to prevent his escape. Of course, he figured the infamous Phantom had skill in the art of escapism, so he would be sure to tie him to something sturdy when not directly supervising him.

No sooner did Raoul finish than the effects of the chloroform began to wear off again. Erik groaned, his eyes fluttering open. They looked disoriented and confused as they darted around the unfamiliar interior. He started to breathe faster in panic as his awareness returned.

“Welcome back, my friend,” Raoul greeted Erik as Luc arrived with a clean shirt. The vicomte put it on and buttoned it up, Luc quickly disappearing around the corner as he did not want the Phantom to even see him. Raoul glanced in the direction he went. “You are both dismissed for the night. Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. I wish to be left in private now.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” came the men’s unison reply. They retreated from the villa and headed to the servants’ quarters across the courtyard, not wanting to witness whatever was about to transpire.

Neither did Raoul wish them to witness it. He walked from window to window, closing the curtains. Erik perceived his bindings and began to struggle furiously. A smile lit up the vicomte’s face as he overheard the man huffing and puffing as he fought to free himself.

The Phantom said nothing at first. He was far too irate to even think clearly enough to speak. His thrashing grew desperate until he finally became weary and stopped, roaring in rage.

Raoul clicked his tongue as he walked over to a glass-topped wooden side table with a bottle of rose wine and a few glasses. He poured himself some and took a sip. “Do you believe me now?”

“You think I’ll let you and Christine keep me as a pet?!” Erik spat, revulsion glistening in his dark loathsome eyes. “It’s not worth it. I’ll never stop trying to kill you and you will make a mistake soon enough. You will let down your guard one of these days. Even if by some miracle you don’t, I’ll never sing or compose for your precious vicomtesse under your bondage. Never! Now, release me, you deplorable maggot!” the enraged captive bellowed.

Raoul uttered a single chuckle. He found it amusing that Erik underestimated his powers of persuasion, but that was not a topic the young nobleman cared to delve into now. “You don’t understand because you refused to listen earlier. Now that I have your undivided attention, let me explain. Myself and other wealthy patrons are funding the construction of a new opera house in Paris. I wish for my wife to have an immense arena to explore her artistic talent. You can take part in this endeavor if you clean up your act.” He paused with the wine glass in his right hand and pointed directly at the Phantom. “And don’t even think of trying to burn this one down or you will sorely regret it,” he warned in a stern voice, then took another sip from the glass.

Erik sneered at him. Sitting up as straight as he could on the rug with his knees bent and his feet flat on the floor, he let his bound arms rest on his knees. The welts on his legs throbbed painfully, so he sought to keep them from contact with the floor. Snapping his head to the side, he stared into the fire angrily as he tried to ignore the aching pain. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Nor I, you. And I aim to see to it you refrain from terrorizing anyone in the future, Erik. If you want something, you are to take legitimate paths to getting it. If that fails, then too bad. You can’t always get what you want,” Raoul decreed, finishing his wine and putting down the glass.

The Phantom felt his face burning up in hatred at the lecturing fool. As if the aristocrat speaking his name was not bad enough, it only reminded Erik of the means he had taken to procure it. The fop was hardly the authority on not getting what he wanted. Indeed, Raoul had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, whereas Erik had to fight tooth and nail for everything he had—even his freedom, which he had been forced to kill for. The basic human needs of love, dignity, and respect were another story entirely. Erik snorted at him. “Well, merci for your kind consideration, Vicomte, but I have my own enterprise underway—Phantasma. I want nothing to do with you and your stupid opera house in wretched Paris,” Erik spat, grappling with his bindings.

Raoul closed his eyes, shaking his head in amusement. “You make it sound like you have a say in the matter, Destler. Whatever you are doing now, you are to sell it. Our ship to France leaves tomorrow night, so you have one day to get your affairs in order. Now, it is far past my bedtime and yours as well,” the young man decreed. He took something out of a drawer that Erik could not see, which made the captive nervous as he kept trying to catch a glance of whatever it was. To his misfortune, Raoul kept it behind his back as he approached the anxious prisoner.

Erik was caught off guard as Raoul used a limber foot to push him down on his back and flip him over onto his belly. The Phantom yelped in surprise. When Raoul’s shin descended onto his lower back to pin him in place a split second later, the masked marvel started grunting and snarling as he struggled to roll back over. He cried out in a high-pitched voice when something sharp stung his right buttock dead center, causing him to panic as his vision went brown.

Raoul withdrew the syringe when the Phantom passed out again, his struggles ceasing within seconds. He could not have the clever man conscious while he slept. There was a very real chance he might escape. The vicomte hauled Erik up and carried him bridal style into the master suite. He placed his prisoner down on the roman couch and tied him in place, then covered him with lush blankets and put a pillow under his head. “Good night, prince of darkness. Tomorrow we meet again,” he said, yawning. Raoul walked over to the dresser to procure his nightshirt. He slipped into it and retired to the king-sized bed, falling asleep when his head hit the pillow.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Luc was an excellent chef from a petite village in southern France. As such, he was always the first to rise in the morning to prepare breakfast for the entire house. On this fine November day, the heavenly scents of fresh-baked croissants, cinnamon buns, French toast, egg omelets, ripe strawberries, creamed coffee, and honeyed tea roused Erik from his deep slumber. Still groggy and disoriented from the sedative, his weary eyes recoiled from the intense sunlight that shone through the sheer drapes into the luxurious suite. When the masked man heard rustling nearby, he turned and glanced over the roman couch as his eyes gradually adjusted to the light.

“Morning, Destler. I trust you slept well,” Raoul greeted. He sounded quite chipper as he stood before the boudoir mirror adjusting the loose bow around his neck. He looked both dapper and confident, though Erik had other matters to think about. Like sleeping more. He was dog-tired. But so hungry. But oh-so exhausted. The Phantom shifted positions as much as his bindings would allow while one of his eyelids drifted shut again, the other one not far behind.

Just as Erik had begun to doze off again, the vicomte yanked off his warm blankets, forcibly exposing him to the chilly air in the room. The masked man groaned loudly in dislike, but Raoul was impervious to his plight. The nobleman loosened his bindings from the couch and pulled him up into a sitting position. He immediately slumped against the head of the couch.

“Come. Surely, you’re hungry,” Raoul suggested, hauling Erik up like a rag doll. He carried him back to the living quarters that they had been in the previous night. The fur rug before the fireplace was replaced with a French dining set, the table hosting a beautiful array of morning delicacies. There were only two chairs. With a sculpted metal backing and thin cushion, Erik found his quite uncomfortable when Raoul set him down upon it. The vicomte retrieved a syringe from a nearby drawer. Though Erik did not see with his sleepy eyes closed, he felt the sting when the needle penetrated the top of his thigh. The fog in his mind began to clear as the sedative antidote took effect. “I left your hands free so my servants would not have to hand-feed you. Please, dig in,” the fop offered, setting the syringe aside and sitting down across from him.

Just as soon as the Phantom’s thoughts fell back into place, he began to struggle with his arm bindings again. He did not care that the vicomte was present, he was angry and wanted to be freed. Whether angry at Raoul for capturing him or at himself for being overpowered, it did not matter. The result was the same. At one point, he got frustrated and ceased his struggles quite suddenly. Turning instead to the glass tabletop, he grabbed two croissants and an omelet and proceeded to stuff himself like a Thanksgiving turkey. While he inwardly did not wish to accept his captor’s hospitality, he reasoned that he would need as much nourishment as possible to fuel his brain cells for an escape plan. His brain was his greatest weapon and defense. If anything could get him out of the present unfavorable situation, his brilliant mind could.

Raoul sat across from Erik watching the man’s every move. He found it fascinating. Everything about the creative mind was of interest to him. He too began to eat, slowly and politely in stark comparison to the Phantom’s methods. Still, he studied him. From the way Erik sat in the chair to keep his bruised legs out of contact with the metal edge to the way he reconciled the act of eating with his bindings. He always found the most expedient route to achieve his goals, unlike average folk who often had to wander around in the dark a lot before finding their way.

With Raoul’s ever-watchful gaze upon him, the Phantom started to feel self-conscious after he had cleared well over half the table. Was his deformity showing? Did he have food on his mask? The feeling of anxiety grew to the point that he could no longer tolerate it and he slammed his feet down on the floor. “Enough! I wish to be set free. It was not I who attacked you this time, but you who cornered me. I acted solely in self-defense. And given that I freed you and Christine as of my own free will two years ago, I expect repayment in kind!” he spouted.

Raoul made no reply at first as he finished off the last of the strawberries. He set the stem on his plate and leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the tabletop with his fingers intertwined. “You’re quite obstinate, you know that? Obstinate and discerning as anyone I’ve ever met. How intriguing. No wonder Christine was and still is so bewitched by you. You’re really quite extraordinary, Erik. It’s a shame your childhood had to so damage your interpersonal skills.”

The Phantom sneered at the remark. “What would a flake like you know of my childhood?”

Raoul shrugged. “You were the Devil’s Child in a traveling show. Seems like a cheesy act to me. According to Madame Giry, however, it was pretty popular with the common folk who liked to throw insults, rocks, rotten food, and otherwise torment you,” he expressed, quite forthcoming.

Erik felt his heart stop. Madame Giry claimed to have only told Raoul where to find him in the cellars of the Opera Populaire—a deed for which Erik had forgiven her—not that she had thought to include such personal information as well. It was like a knife through his heart, he felt betrayed at once. Meg would likely side with her mother on such matters, so even she could no longer be trusted as far as Erik was concerned. The Phantom’s face and shoulders slumped, his eyes weighted down to the floor. He had not a friend in the world. He wanted to melt, to curl up in a fetal position on the hardwood floor and sink beneath it into oblivion. It was unbearable to the point that he felt his chest tighten like he might start to cry, but he could not do so in the face of his enemy. Hell, why was he even surprised? Friendship and love, they were only available to the flawless in outward appearance. This was a fact that Erik had known and accepted for years. Now, he felt like a fool yet again for holding out even the puniest sliver of hope.

Regardless of Erik’s struggle to control his countenance, the vicomte picked up on his anguish and quickly rose to his feet with a serious expression. “I did not bring that up to torture you. I was only commenting on the fact that you need to relearn how to relate to others because of such experiences. In a good way, a positive way. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so miserable.”

Erik gave him a look of incredulity. His face fell and he shook his head muttering, _“Impossible.”_

Raoul heard and countered quickly, “Nothing’s impossible.”

The Phantom snapped his head up to look at the vicomte again, a hateful glint in his eyes. “How would you know, you naive brat? I’ve lived almost twice as long as you and yet you have the nerve to stand here before me and lecture me? Might I remind you that the longer you insist on keeping me against my will, the more horrific your eventual death will be. Mark my words, fop. You’ve made the very last and very worst mistake of your life,” he seethed.

Raoul let the threat slide off his shoulders. “Oh, you’re crafty, to be sure,” he replied, finishing off the last of his coffee, “but you should not underestimate me either. I came well prepared to deal with the acumen of a genius. Now, I suggest you keep your bad behavior in check because I have more than a few ways of pacifying you if need be,” the nobleman advised.

“Don’t you threaten me, boy!” Erik roared at him.

Raoul’s retort was very calm in comparison. “You started it.”

Erik huffed at him. “What are you, nine?”

“I’m merely pointing out that you threatened me first. Lesson one in social relations, you get what you give. The Golden Rule. Ever read much of the Bible, Erik?” Raoul inquired as he wiped his mouth. The Phantom seemed to draw back in fear at the mere mention of holy scripture, the expression on his face reminiscent of a deer caught in a hunter’s lamplight as he exchanged gazes with the vicomte. Raoul was unsure of what the look meant and he raised a brow in response. “Well, have you?” he repeated, desiring an honest answer.

Erik still did not respond. He tried to keep his breathing steady as he considered how to change the topic of discussion. This one was entirely intolerable to his ears. His eyes darted around as he wracked his brain for answers. “I’m still going to kill you,” he charged.

Raoul blinked. “Now, that’s a good example of what the Golden Rule is not. You see, it’s like this; if you do not wish to be killed, then you should not kill. That’s the very first of the Ten Commandments, the most important one. Do you understand, Erik? What am I saying, of course you understand,” he said, smacking himself on the forehead. “You are a genius, after all. What I’m saying is—unless you want to die, you should not kill others or threaten to kill.” He paused, realizing a potential weakness in his argument. “You don’t… want to die, do you?”

Erik fell silent. He honestly had to think about that one. All he really knew was that he would be tortured in hell for eternity if he died, making his earthly existence pale in comparison. He was half-demon after all, the Devil’s Child. His own mother had told him as much. His face fell again and he shook his head. No, he did not want to die. Ever. He wished to live as long as possible to put off the endless suffering that was to come. He even held out a glimmer of hope that his gifted brain might reveal the secret of immortality. Maybe then he could avoid such a fate.

Raoul quickly repressed a sigh of relief. The vicomte had been half worried that the man in the mask might be suicidal for a moment. “Good. So that’s why you shouldn’t kill,” he finished. He quickly reached for the small silver bell in the center of the table and rung it quite loudly.

Rémy appeared, avidly avoiding Erik’s gaze as if to so much as meet his eye would cause blindness. He bowed politely to the vicomte. “O-oui, Monsieur?” he spoke. The rotund man was visibly shaky in the Phantom’s presence and Erik liked him immediately because of it.

“I need to run to the lavatory for a sec. I expect you to watch _him_ ,” Raoul instructed, pointing squarely at the restrained Phantom of the Opera, “like a hawk. Understood?”

“But Monsieur!” Rémy began to protest, quickly silenced with a wave of the vicomte’s hand.

“I’ll be right back,” Raoul said in a reassuring manner just before he disappeared down the hall.

Rémy gulped and slowly turned around to meet the grinning countenance of the Populaire’s former Opera Ghost. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach and he quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest, backing away. “S’il vous plaît, Monsieur le Fantôme. Don’t kill me…” he murmured in a mouse-like voice, squeezing his palms together in a pleading manner.

Erik curled the sides of his lips downward and shook his head. “Not in a homicidal mood,” he declared, tilting his masked visage to the side as he scrutinized the skittish attendant. He felt like a snotty kid holding a magnifying glass over a tiny ant. “But I’ll tell you what I am in the mood for—a little something I like to call _free-dom_ ,” he enunciated, waggling his brows.

Beads of sweat started forming on Rémy’s forehead. He tried and failed to stutter out a response.

“Tell you what,” Erik continued in almost a whisper without so much as skipping a beat. He glanced momentarily down the hall. “Untie me now and I will graciously spare your life. Granted the fop will probably fire you, but I’m willing to extend as generous a loan as need be to help you transition over to your next job. How does that sound?” he propositioned.

“I d-don’t think I c…” Rémy began just before his eyes rolled back in his head.

The Phantom cringed when the hefty man hit the hardwood floor, his large belly making a bounce on impact. That was not the effect Erik had been going for and he sighed in frustration as he gazed down at Rémy. “You lily-livered gutless pansy invertebrate…” Still, he liked the man.

Just then, Luc wandered in and tripped on Rémy’s over-sized belly, face-planting onto the floor with a loud thump. Groaning in pain, he pushed himself up with blood gushing from his nose and glanced back at Rémy, then peered up at the infamous Phantom of the Opera.

“Boo,” Erik said. Luc squealed like a piglet and lost consciousness, evoking a chuckle from the bound one. The Phantom decided he liked Luc as well. What a lovable pair of stooges.

Erik was just about to stand up and hop into the kitchen for a knife when Raoul unfortunately reappeared and noticed what looked like a potential murder scene. His wrathful eyes fell upon the Phantom as he rushed over to examine the bodies. “What did you do, Erik?!”

The man blinked. “Who, me? Nothing!”

“Oh, sure!” Raoul spat angrily, crouching by his two servants.

Erik rolled his eyes at Raoul. “It is not my fault that your henchmen are such pitiful cowards, Vicomte. I am not the fool who hired them, now am I?” he pointed out.

Raoul breathed a much-welcome sigh of relief when he felt the two still had pulses. “If they were dead, you would be too,” he snapped back. “What did you do to them anyway?” He rolled Luc onto his back to examine his injury, taking a cloth napkin from the table and holding it to the man’s nose as it gushed blood into the fabric. As he held the napkin in place, he glanced up at the Phantom with a look that could kill. “I’m starting to think you might need to be taught a lesson.”

Erik raised a brow. “What?”

“You heard me,” Raoul replied, reaching over to dip another napkin in the ice water on the table. He wrung it out and placed the napkin on Rémy’s forehead. “Maybe I ought to deprive you of your mask around these two. See what a big shot you are then with your one big vulnerability on display. How does that sound, Mr. Destler?” he threatened, staring the other man down.

The Phantom snarled and snapped his head to the side to conceal the masked half. “You sound so sure that these two could handle it. They fear me enough with the mask _on_ ,” he curtly retorted.

“It’s not your face they fear. It’s your homicidal tendencies. In fact, Rémy here was asking to take off your mask last night while you were unconscious in the carriage. Believe it or not, he was actually _curious_ ,” Raoul pointed out, flashing the Phantom a grin of triumph.

Erik felt a spike of fear pierce his heart. The vicomte would not really do it, would he? It had to be an empty threat. The disfigured genius would take a violent beating over an unmasking any day. His eyes glazed over and his hands started to shake uncontrollably.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The rush of adrenaline barely blocked the exploding pain of the switch as it beat down on his bare torso. A jagged rock hit him in the shoulder as the crowd jeered and shouted in his direction. The worst was yet to come. His gypsy master Bamboli was a harsh man twice his size and ten times his strength. It took little effort for him to bind Erik’s wrists together with one ironclad fist while the other yanked off the burlap bag he kept over his head. Erik tried to cast his face down to conceal it from the taunters, not only for shame but also to protect himself from hurled rocks. He had had his eyes blackened many times before, sometimes even swollen shut.

But his master was merciless. The man grabbed his matted hair and yanked his head up, baring him for the world to see. His wrists still held, he could not hope to cover his face or body as the hail of rotten food and disgusted reactions continued unabated for however long his master saw fit. Tears streaming down his face, his loud sobs were drown out by the crowd’s violence. Sometimes it was not so bad, like when the crowd was small. But in those cases he always got a beating afterward for not making enough money for his captor. No amount of begging, pleading, praying, or crying ever helped. He was alone and in pain and always would be.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The flashback showed itself on the troubled genius’s exterior in the form of a panic attack. He started to wheeze, tremble, and sweat rapidly all at once. When a startled vicomte jumped up to see what was the matter, Erik fell back in his chair and rolled over coming to land next to the fireplace tools. His mind rapidly adjusted to his new position. He pushed himself to his knees and grabbed a hold of the fire poker, brandishing it threateningly. “Stay back! I’m warning you, Vicomte! Touch the mask and I’ll gut you!” he bellowed in a quivering voice.

Raoul procured his rapier from the nearby closet and pointed it at the Phantom. He did not even have to say a word for Erik to instantaneously drop the fire poker with a loud clatter. The masked man knew he did not stand a chance in his present condition. Instead, he cringed back into the chimney brick, coiling his bound arms over the masked side of his head. He sat there, trying to calm himself as he felt nausea rising in his abdomen. Raoul returned the sword to the closet and turned back to face the disturbed musician as his two servile stooges started to rouse.

Rémy looked around in confusion, while Luc groaned in pain and sat up holding the bridge of his nose. The former’s fat had cushioned his fall enough that he was not too hurt. “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur. I am known to be a bit anemic at times,” Rémy admitted in embarrassment as he took the napkin on his forehead and dabbed his face with it. He turned, saw Luc’s bloody nose, and with a breathless “Oh, là là,” his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out again.

As Luc peered down at Rémy lying unconscious on the floor in befuddlement and then up at the vicomte, Raoul inquired of him in an irked voice, “And what’s your story?”

Luc glanced at Rémy and met eyes with Raoul again. “I believe I may have tripped, Monsieur. Do forgive my inattentiveness,” he said, rising to his feet as he held his nose. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, though there was a small puddle of blood on the floor. “Excusez-moi. I must clean myself up and mop the floor,” he added, rushing off to the servants’ lavatory.

Raoul glanced down at the masked genius. Erik relaxed his arms in his lap as the one servant disappeared from the room. All would appear as if he had been innocent all along, but the young vicomte was not so sure. He withheld his suspicions and chose to say nothing on the matter. “Come, we have business to attend to,” he stated as Rémy once again regained consciousness. He instructed the portly manservant to ready the horses and carriage and Rémy left to carry out his orders. Meanwhile, Raoul pulled a wheel chair out of the main hall closet, a courtesy available for invalid guests who might stay at the villa. He wheeled it out into the main living quarters and brought it to a stop right in front of Erik. “You’re heavy and I’m tired of carrying you around,” he stated plainly. “Therefore, you will be riding in this lovely contraption.”

“Don’t touch me!” yelled the Phantom.

Raoul simply replied, “Can you get yourself into the seat without my assistance?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! Unless you plan to untie me, just leave me alone!” Erik snapped, kicking the fire poker away angrily so that it hit the wheel chair’s right tire.

“Unless you want to lose your mask or your current consciousness, you will cooperate. Now, come here,” Raoul commanded, stepping forward. He reached down and snatched the Phantom up by the ropes binding his wrists, hauling him to his feet. Erik immediately resisted by refusing to hold his own weight, slumping down on his backside again. “Aw, screw it,” the vicomte said, kicking the wheel chair aside. If Erik was going to make this difficult, it was not worth the effort. Again, he grabbed the musician in the same way and this time he hauled the man up over his shoulder, pinning him down with a muscular arm stretched up over his lower back.

Erik screamed in rage, “Put me down, you bombastic son-of-a-bitch!” He struggled as well as he could by pounding away at Raoul’s back and using his uni-leg to kick like a dolphin. While Raoul stumbled a little, it was not enough to make the strong young man lose his balance and Erik found himself toted out the front door like a sack of potatoes to the waiting carriage outside. It was cold, but not nearly as cold as the night before. The sun was shining bright and had melted the snow on the ground, leaving the cobblestone walkway dry and clear. As he was loaded into the coach, he tried to grab ahold of something, anything to avoid being forced inside. Raoul foresaw this intent and prevented it by pulling him back and bear-hugging him to pin his arms to his trunk. In that position, the vicomte stepped into the carriage backwards with Erik in tow.

“You can ride next to Luc if you’d like, Rémy!” Raoul informed the very nervous-looking servant, who quickly nodded and shut the door behind them. When the coach started moving, the Phantom of the Opera was still making a fuss to the point that Raoul had to tie his wrist bindings to the armrest to restrict his movements more. It was a very uncomfortable position and Erik felted punished for it, which only made him angrier. “If you continue to scream like that you might attract the attention of the local authorities. They, in turn, might order you to remove your mask. Do you really want that?” Raoul surmised, opening up the morning’s newspaper.

The Phantom glared lividly at Raoul, which yielded little response from the vicomte. “Maybe then you’d be arrested for kidnapping!” he bellowed back, fighting his bindings.

“Or maybe I would tell them I was a bounty hunter for a French fugitive wanted for murder. It’s pretty much the truth, except the part about me being a bounty hunter,” Raoul shot back nonchalantly. Technically, he was a bounty hunter, but he had only procured that certification as a Plan C in case he got caught with Erik in his possession; he had no intention of otherwise turning in said fugitive to the French authorities. That would be a waste of the man’s talents.

Erik’s eyes widened in disbelief and he collapsed in defeat. The vicomte had his balls in a vice-like grip and was bearing down on them. What could Erik possibly do? Now, even if he escaped, he would be forced to flee again and start over somewhere else. Unless he killed Raoul. It seemed now that he had no choice in the matter. The vicomte would have to die for the Phantom to be able to live in peace. Erik endured the rest of the carriage ride in silence. He wondered where Raoul was taking him, though the drapes on the windows were down and he was in no position to roll them back up or take a peek. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. When he started to hear the distinct sounds of human activity, however, he kept as quiet as a mouse. Never was he out and about in full daylight. The notion terrified him to a large degree.

“Almost there,” Raoul abruptly said when he noticed the anxious look on Erik’s face. The voices and shuffling outside began to die down as they entered a quieter area. The vicomte peeked out of the window himself and then he called up to Luc, “Drive around the back!”

The horsewhip cracked and Erik felt the coach make a left turn. After a few more paces, the wheels of the carriage finally ground to a halt. The Phantom felt his heart flutter in apprehension when he heard what sounded like tense female whispering outside. They almost sounded like…

The vicomte abruptly pushed Erik’s head down, slid open the curtain, and rolled down the window. “Morning, ladies. I suppose you’re curious what I called you to a private meeting for.”

“As I told you before, Monsieur de Chagny, my daughter and I know nothing of the Phantom’s whereabouts. He could be anywhere in the world right now for all we know, maybe even dead. We cannot help you,” Madame Giry insisted. Erik’s eyes popped open at the familiar voice.

Raoul smiled curtly and, without saying a word, swung open the door and pulled Erik back up. The Phantom of the Opera and his bindings were in full view to both Meg and Madame Giry and them to him as well. “That’s where I know you’ve lied to me,” the vicomte stated after a moment of stunned silence from the three of them. “I’m leaving for France tonight and Monsieur le Fantôme here is coming with me,” he declared, patting said Fantôme on the back. “You had best lead me to his dwelling now so that I can have his belongings packed up for the trip.”

 _“How did you…?”_ Meg squeaked, near speechlessness. Her mother was agape in disbelief.

Raoul shook his head and chuckled. “Setting a trap for a genius is no easy feat, I’ll gladly admit. Believe me, I learned my lesson the first time I tried—never attempt to trap the Phantom in his own element. It took many months of planning this time. And neither of you were of any help at all, I must say,” the young nobleman scolded lightly, wagging a finger at the two women.

“Of course, we were of no help!” Madame Giry blared in a sudden bout of passion. “He is like a brother to me. The only reason I aided you before was because people were getting hurt and it had to stop. He is not hurting anyone here and you have no right to take him by force! Why is he bound? What are you going to do with him? Release him, Vicomte!” the woman demanded, lunging for the masked musician and his bindings in an attempt to set him free.

The vicomte was too strong and fast, however, and he blocked her path, pushing her back out of the coach with gentle yet effective force. “I don’t think so, Madame. And don’t even think about trying to get the American authorities involved because I have an airtight alibi.”

Meg was frozen in a state of disbelief that was soon replaced with fiery rage. “How could you? You have no right, Vicomte! He’s my teacher and our employer—our only source of income! We need him,” she cried in anger, running at Raoul in an attempt to beat him with her small fists.

Her mother held her back before she could get to him. “No, Meg. It’s useless.”

“Christine needs him too,” Raoul confided. “She is not well.” Hearing Meg’s testimony, he started to think over the situation though. He was not unsympathetic to their plight.

“Christine? Christine! That girl is the worst kind of traitor. She unmasked him in front of a theater full of spectators after everything he did for her. He is the sole reason she rose to glory. Without him, she would be nothing more than a pitiful orphaned chorus girl. If I had known you’d instructed her to unmask him like that, I would have warned him!” Madame Giry raged, stepping forward fearlessly. Her eyes glinted with bitterness as she met Raoul’s gaze.

The vicomte put up a hand. “Hold on, you both must be under the wrong impression. Madame, I instructed Christine to do no such thing. We weren’t at all expecting the Phantom of the Opera to appear onstage. How could we have foreseen that?” Raoul replied defensively.

Madame Giry had no interest in excuses. “Well, that only puts more responsibility for the deed on Christine’s shoulders. Why did _she_ need to do that? Everyone already knew it was the Opera Ghost up there with her on that stage. There was no need to see his face to confirm!” the elder Frenchwoman roared. “And now she wants him back? Forgive me if I lack sympathy, Vicomte.”

Raoul glanced at the ground and shook his head. “She made a mistake. Christine was a scared youth at the time who hardly knew a thing about herself, yet you insist on judging her so harshly? You must remember she was like a daughter to you, Madame. These days she is much changed and matured. You should see her now. All of you. Why not come back to France with us? Construction on a new opera house has begun in Paris. I’m a patron. I can get you in.”

This time Meg was the one to protest. “But I’m leading lady here. The American crowds love me! What kind of prospects have I back in France? I’d have to be as extraordinary as Christine to get any attention there,” Meg explained, now more worried than irate. Hearing that Christine was unwell, concern for her had begun to counterbalance Meg’s anger. Still, she was not ready to give up her future and head back to France by that evening just for her old friend’s sake. “The problem is in the culture,” she murmured. “Americans are not so hard set on tradition. They like the new and unusual. Christine is a classic beauty, but I’m more of an acquired taste.”

“Meg, don’t say that about yourself. You…” Madame Giry began before being cut off by Raoul.

“I’ll put in a good word for you. I’ll even pay for your tickets back to France and help you get re-situated. Maybe you won’t get as much attention, but you’ll be able to see all your old friends and regularly visit any family you have there. As for you in particular, Meg, have you thought about love and marriage? There is a New Year’s gala coming up. Hundreds of young eligible gentlemen will be in attendance. You could meet someone special,” Raoul suggested, repressing the impulse to wink at her. He did not want his offer to come across as cheesy.

Meg returned the offer with a scowl, which seemed to surprise the vicomte. She was a career girl. Plus, she was already deeply in love with someone and it was the dark, mysterious, but very unfortunate man tied to the armrest right next to Raoul. Meg kept it a secret, of course, as she still feared the Phantom. He was normally such a commanding presence and it distressed her greatly to see him in a helpless hostage situation. She did not like it, not one bit. And as much as she missed her childhood friend Christine Daaé, the thought of her setting foot anywhere near the Phantom again after what she did to him caused a fiery jealous rage to flare up in Meg’s core.

Raoul sighed in irritation. “My offer is final, ladies. Take it or leave it, but you best show me to his residence if you wish him to have his belongings,” the vicomte said decisively.

Erik had done nothing thus far but listen to the conversation about him, feeling too humiliated to utter a single syllable. All he could do was stare at the floor of the stagecoach blankly, but Raoul’s ultimatum gave him no choice. He sighed in defeat and whispered the word “ _Tower_ ” below his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be deprived of his material possessions. He had created so many operas, songs, poems, stories, and designs in the past years that the thought of starting over at zero was intolerable. Meg had been thoughtful enough to smuggle many of his written works out of the opera house cellars before the French police could confiscate them all as evidence. The only things he had time to grab himself were his suitcases full of French francs. Twenty thousand francs a month for years on end had made the Phantom a wealthy man and he would need his wealth to survive in any new situation life might present.

While neither of the ladies had heard Erik speak, Raoul glanced back at him. “Come again?”

The Phantom’s temper flared up in an instant. “The tower! I live in the tower. Above the theater,” he snarled, snapping his head up to glare at Raoul with nothing short of pure enmity.

The vicomte smiled. “I’m glad you’ve chosen to see reason, my friend,” he replied, patting Erik on the back. The unwanted contact sent the Phantom into another rage. He started thrashing against his bindings terribly, causing the entire stagecoach to shake and bounce. Meg had never seen him so upset and she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. “Destler, don’t make me break out the sedatives again!” Raoul warned, trying to contain the man’s violent temper tantrum.

“Erik. Erik! Everything will be okay. We’ll figure something out like we always do,” Madame Giry said, trying to pacify him in a more constructive way than Raoul’s forceful and insensitive methods. As she was unaware of Erik’s loss of trust in her, she was taken aback as her pleas only added fuel to the flames. The poor man’s face was turning bright red from the terrible stress of it all and she could only imagine how terrified he was at that moment. The Phantom momentarily stopped thrashing long enough to catch his breath before redoubling his efforts to escape.

Meanwhile, Meg had become livid. Her attention zeroed in on Raoul. “You big bully! I don’t know what Christine sees in you. I hope he gets free soon and breaks your neck with his Punjab lasso!” she screamed at him, turning away with tears in her eyes as she ran off crying.

“Meg!” Madame Giry barked, reaching toward her. It was too late, the girl was gone. The elder woman’s eyes snapped back to glare at Raoul. “I swear, Vicomte. If you know what’s good for you, you had better not even think about hurting him,” she warned before turning to go after her daughter. “Meg, come back!” she cried, running off in the direction the girl had fled.

“Rémy, stay here to greet the moving crew when they arrive,” Raoul ordered, taking a syringe out of his satchel. The Phantom was in such a fit that he did not even see it before the vicomte plunged it into his thigh and injected the contents. He blacked out within seconds. Luc drove the stagecoach back to the villa and Raoul tied Erik to a chair, instructing his nervous manservant to keep an eye on the man. “Don’t worry, he won’t wake up. I promise,” Raoul ensured him before he departed to send the moving crew to Phantasma. He rode a horse there himself and oversaw things as the crew began the process of packing Erik’s belongings into large crates.

Raoul himself took the time to gather all paper documents within the Phantom’s lair, which mostly consisted of written music, literary compositions, sketches, and stunning architectural blueprints. He put these works into a series of folders that he planned to keep by his side for reading material during the voyage back to France. He gave further instructions to Rémy before departing again for the villa. It turned out Erik had a fair number of personal possessions and it took many hours and a pretty penny to clear the theater’s tower. Every crate was transported by stagecoach to the hold of the ship scheduled to set sail at ten o’clock sharp that very night.

Meg and Madame Giry were forced to cooperate. The mother-daughter pair reluctantly accepted the responsibility of finding a buyer for Phantasma. As the task could not be completed in a single day, Raoul left them with enough money for a month’s worth of living expenses, ship tickets to France, and train tickets to the city of Paris for them to book the voyage themselves. He made sure to include a letter for them to give the new managers of the Opera Spectaculaire, the name of the new opera house, offering his enthusiastic support in their hiring.

The pre-boarding of the ship began at five o’clock to allow the wealthier passengers to get comfortably situated in their cabins. Raoul’s was the largest and most luxurious on the whole ship and it was where he smuggled the Phantom’s unconscious body to in a large crate.


	2. Chapter 2

Meg lay on the twin bed in her room sobbing her heart out as she cuddled Erik’s friendly Siamese cat Ayesha. It was seven at night, only three hours before the ship’s departure. Her face was flushed and her eyes bloodshot as she lay there in sorrow by the feline. She had volunteered to take care of the beautiful animal until they got back to France because, at least then, she felt somewhat close to him. The young woman had far too much to deal with emotionally. First, the man she loved had been kidnapped by an old rival. As if that was not bad enough, Raoul had shattered her glorious dreams for the Phantasma attraction and her future career.

Ayesha mewed at Meg and head-butted her right hand as the sniffling woman stroked her back with the left. The cat, being in an affectionate mood, purred and her trills were soft and fluttering like a baby bird. Comforting as they were, they could not fully ameliorate the situation.

“I know. I miss him too, sweetie,” Meg Giry croaked, her voice raw and congested with phlegm. “Maman’s trying to figure out what to do with the other dancers and employees in the mean time. I think we’re going to go ahead and rehearse for the next production so we at least have something to advertise to prospective buyers.” She sniffled, finding it comforting to talk to the Siamese. “It’s not fair. Your papa and my maman worked so incredibly hard scraping this whole thing together and I never trained harder in my life!” she lamented. Ayesha meowed.

Meg’s reddened eyes shot open. “My word, you’re right! I should rescue him myself. But how would I go about getting on the ship unnoticed? _La Dame Merveilleuse_ is a big ship! I don’t know what cabin that jerk is keeping him in,” she blurted, jumping to her knees. She thought more and more about the feeble plan and her face fell. “I don’t know. That stupid vicomte is richer, stronger, and more powerful than I’ll ever be. Probably smarter too. If the Master can’t rescue himself, what makes you and I think that I could possibly stand a chance?”

When Ayesha meowed again, Meg sighed deeply. “Well, I’ve got to do something. Oh, I know! I’ll write a letter to Christine and tell her all about what her beloved hubby is up to. If she knew what a brute he really is, she would kick him to the curb for sure,” Meg declared. She gasped and slapped a hand to her heart a moment later. “Oh, no! But if she left Raoul, then maybe she’d have eyes for…” Her eyes widened in horror. “No! He is nobody’s backup husband. Someone like, well, _him_ deserves to be a woman’s first choice. Don’t you think, Ayesha?”

As Meg saw the Phantom in a god-like manner, she did not dare speak his real name even though her mother called him Erik all the time. While the dancers and employees of Phantasma knew him as Mr. Y, to Meg he was either “the Phantom,” “the Master,” or simply “Him.” When speaking to the man face to face, she always called him “Master” or “Sir.” Meg absolutely worshipped the ground that the masked genius walked on and now she was crazy about his cat too, whom she had only just met. Ayesha gently grasped one of Meg’s fingers with her paws and nipped it softly. Then she started licking it profusely as if it tasted of heavenly gravy.

“Awww, you sweet little darling,” Meg proclaimed, snuggling her. “I need to talk to Maman about this. She’ll know what to do for sure!” the dancer decided, getting up from the bed with the cat in her arms. She took her into the small kitchen of their apartment and fed Ayesha tuna from a can before running off to find Madame Giry down in the Phantasma theater.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The vicomte’s suite on the _La Dame Merveilleuse_ was like a luxury apartment. Marble floors, painted plaster walls with silver accents, and large windows came with a soundproof master bedroom to shield sensitive sleepers from the ship’s roaring engines. The bedroom was where Raoul decided to keep Erik to conceal his noisy fits of anger and aggression. With the ever-rumbling sound of the ship’s steam engines throughout the journey, it would be a piece of cake to keep the unwilling stowaway concealed from the ship’s crew. It was only an hour or two before the ship’s departure that Raoul had gotten settled in his suite and he decided that it was a good time to rouse the Phantom from his sedated slumber. With the masked man tied to the divan upon which he would be sleeping for the next six weeks, Raoul procured an antidote syringe from his dresser and injected it into Erik’s left thigh. It took ten seconds for the man to rouse.

“Welcome back, my friend,” Raoul greeted.

Erik tried to sit up, only to be held down by the ropes with his arms stretched uncomfortably over his head. Anger was immediately visible on his face. His eyes darted around the room equally luxurious as but less spacious than the villa’s master bedroom. It did not take his sharp mind long to assess where he was. The sound of crashing waves coming in from the cracked window to the left of the bed was quite telling. Glancing to the window, he noticed it was pitch dark already. No wonder his stomach was snarling at him like a rabid animal. Raoul had forced him to skip lunch. The pain was sharp and felt like an imploding pit in his abdomen. “You kept me under the whole day? You’ll medicate me to death, you floundering jackass! I’m starving!”

“Relax, Erik,” Raoul calmly replied. “Dinner will be along shortly. I don’t intend for the drugs to be a daily occurrence. Hopefully, I won’t have to sedate you again until we arrive in Calais.”

“Do not speak my name, boy!” Erik roared. “I will not hear my name spoken by the likes of you. You are a foolish fop who should be tarred, feathered, and disemboweled with a broken shard of toilet porcelain. A vulgar mag worm feeding on the dead flesh of high society!”

Raoul raised both brows, attentive to how feisty Erik had become. “My, you have a way with words. In fact, I brought some of your work with me to the suite,” he replied, picking up a brown folder from the top of the dresser. It was stuffed to the brim with familiarly-colored parchment.

Erik raised his brows in surprise as he caught sight of what the vicomte had in his hands. “What? My work? Put it down! I do not grant you permission to look at it!” he spat angrily.

“By all means come over here and try to stop me,” Raoul challenged in a nonchalant voice as he casually fingered through the pages. He was most interested in the sketches at that moment. There were detailed depictions of all kinds of amazing mechanisms both for creating theatrical effects and magical illusion. The vicomte found it all most captivating as he examined them, settling on one particular sketch that depicted how a series of well-placed mirrors could make a person appear to be floating several feet off the ground, no pulleys or risks of a real fall.

Erik began shouting curse words and obscene insults in rapid succession in response to Raoul’s disrespect towards his personal property. There was nothing he hated more than someone looking at his unfinished work. He had not had the opportunity to censor his private thoughts in his raw masterpieces and that concerned him greatly because he so feared judgment from others.

“Don’t make me get the soap,” Raoul replied coolly, not taking his eyes off the pages.

The infuriated Phantom was about to verbally retaliate when the silver bell by the door rang, gaining the attention of both men present. “What is that?” Erik bit out in irritation.

“That would be supper,” Raoul revealed, putting the folder down and hopping over to the door. He was gone a minute or two before he rolled in a large platter of authentic French cuisine, something Erik had been sorely missing since he had come to America. Immediately, the masked man’s only concern was gorging himself, all thoughts of asshole opera patrons and their violations of his personal property gone out of his mind. The vicomte rolled the table to the foot of the bed and then turned his attention to Erik’s bindings. He untied the Phantom’s arms and legs from their strict adherence to the structure of the divan and helped him sit up. Raoul then rolled the table up to him and uncovered the many dishes. There was quiche, coq au vin, choucroute garnie, galettes, gougère, and bœuf bourguignon, among other things that Erik had not tasted in a while. It seemed the vicomte had anticipated his intense hunger.

Erik was forced to eat more slowly this time because the dishes were all steaming hot, as much as he hated to do so. He sat in silence and focused solely on the food, yet remained aware that the vicomte was watching him from the other side of the table. It took the Phantom a little over thirty minutes to clear two-thirds of the table. However, he went right back to being pissed the moment he finished. “Untie me!” he demanded, resuming his struggles with the arm bindings.

“But then you would try to escape,” Raoul countered calmly, lightly wiping his mouth with a silk napkin as he finished his own meal. “That would rather interfere with my plans.”

Erik growled. “You think I care about your asinine plans? I never asked to be involved in any of this. Two years ago, I let you and Christine walk and I haven’t bothered you since!”

“We appreciate the thought, but the reality hasn’t been so great, Erik.”

The Phantom stomped his feet on the floor. “Not my problem! I gave you both what you wanted. It was your choice. Yours and hers. A choice you both made that you should have to live with.”

“You don’t understand.”

The angry man slammed his fists down on the table, making the silverware clatter. “No, you don’t understand! Do you know what it’s been like for me? It’s been two years since the only person I ever loved walked out on me all because of you. Look at you, you could’ve had anyone you wanted. You have social standing and wealth, looks and youth. But you had to choose my Christine. You have no idea the time and care I poured into her training. Her voice is one of my greatest masterpieces. I gave that woman a piece of my very soul. And you know damn well you never would’ve noticed her had she not appeared onstage the night Carlotta walked out. She never would’ve appeared without my hard work and perseverance. I fought for her career like no one else would, raised her to glory on my own two shoulders. It was I who did that. Not you, not Madame Giry, and certainly not Firmin, André, or Lefèvre. What right did you have to come and take her? Huh? When you took her away, you pilfered a piece of my soul. And yet you obviously think nothing of it. You are the reason she betrayed me, the one and only.” Erik soon realized that his heart was pounding and felt his face flush. The recollection of those painful memories was making the back of his eyes sting to the point he had to stop talking. While he had much more to say, he knew that he would not be able to get through it all without shedding tears.

Raoul slowly rose from his seat and pushed it aside, watching Erik as the man stared down at the polished marble floor in melancholy. He almost appeared to be in a wistful trance. Any sense of personal culpability the vicomte would have felt was presently overshadowed by concern. “Erik?” he said, rolling the table back from the divan and out of the way. Receiving no response, he moved his chair up closer to the masked man’s position and sat down again, facing him.

Erik did not like it. He wanted to be left alone in his misery to suffer in silence. If given the chance, he would cry his heart out, but it did not seem that the cruel vicomte was willing to afford him even that small mercy. No, Raoul would still drag him back to France where he would be forced to watch as Christine gave all her love to his worst enemy before his helpless pleading eyes. It would be the worst of torments, like being a starving man with a juicy cut of steak just millimeters out of reach—a literal hell on earth. Erik would be forced to feel like a cuckold for eternity, helpless to do anything about it. There would be no rest from the shame.

Raoul sighed and placed his hands on his knees. “Christine was bedridden for weeks before I left. Ever since you disappeared, she’s been on a downward spiral. The last telegraph I received indicated she still isn’t doing well,” he said, lowering his eyes to make contact with Erik's. The Phantom raised his head slightly with a mixed look of curiosity and concern. “She needs your music as much as my love to be healthy and happy,” Raoul continued. “I want you to be part of her life. Continue to teach her, sing to her. I had hoped you would jump at this opportunity.”

Erik Destler did not wish ill of Christine Daaé, now Christine de Chagny. Never could he bring himself to hate her. In fact, he hoped she would recover and be alright. But how could he explain to Raoul that the request would be nothing short of eternal damnation for Erik himself if he was unable to be with her in the same way the vicomte was? The masked man’s face fell as he lowered his gaze to the floor again. “Please, Vicomte. Just leave me in peace. If you’re not going to release me, I at least wish to be alone for some time,” he murmured in a gravelly voice.

Raoul was silent for a moment. He raised his shoulders, conceding. “Fine, I’ll give you some time to think it over.” He stood up and patted Erik on the shoulder, for which he received an angry flinch. With some feeble resistance, he secured the masked man’s arms and legs to the divan again and then rolled the table out of the room, locking the door behind him. Though the ropes did not allow for much movement, at least the Phantom was in a more comfortable position than he had been before. Now, on his left side, he rolled his face into the pillows and finally let the tears flow. They were cold and bitter at first, but grew hot and heart-rending the more he dwelled on his pain. He sobbed inconsolably like his heart was breaking all over again.

Erik had cried himself dry two years back to the point that he had gone completely numb. Afterwards, he had pushed Christine to the back of his mind and proceeded on with life as best he could, trying to imagine that the two had never met. The emptiness was strong as it had ever been, but at least emptiness was a familiar feeling. Now, the masked man knew he was going to be used again like he had been by the gypsies all those years ago, used for entertainment of others that would be of no benefit to him and fully at his expense. His feelings of hatred kept teetering between self-loathing and homicidal contempt for society as a whole.

The worst part was that it was Christine this time. How could he possibly face her again after what she had done to him? She had torn his mask off in front of an enormous audience. To Erik, the act was equivalent to him tearing her clothes off in front of the same. She had shamed him in the worst way possible. And after his desperate act in attempting to force her love, he felt such great shame for all he had done that he allowed her and Raoul to leave. The thought of seeing her again face to face while helplessly bound was unbearable. Would she taunt him? Poke and prod him? Throw things at him? Tear off his mask and have him thrown to an angry mob?

The pain in Erik’s thighs resurfaced, making him wonder if he might be beaten again like before. He feared the absolute worst. His terrifying thoughts seemed to feed off of one another, creating a snowballing effect to the point that Erik had begun to wheeze and hyperventilate. He blacked out for a moment. When he came to, his troubled feelings returned at least threefold.

It was not long before Erik was completely spent. He had no more strength to wail and no tears left to shed. His throat felt raw, his eyes and face were as red as a ripe tomato, and his sinuses were terribly congested. The moisture trapped between his mask and the marred skin underneath was an icky feeling. All in all, the musical genius was a hot mess and he was completely unable to rise and go clean himself up or do anything to help himself at all. Maybe if he had Ayesha by his side, he would be alright. She was a very sensitive animal who always seemed to detect when he was upset. In times like this, she would jump up next to him, curl up either on top of or beside him, and lick his left eyebrow until he felt better. It hurt to not have her with him.

The one thing that served to distract Erik from his anguish was when the ship’s engines started, sending a deep vibration through the hull. He looked up and glanced around. This was it. He was too late. If he had not escaped by now, it meant the end of Phantasma. The ship was about to depart and he was going to be trapped onboard for six weeks, powerless to stop the sale of his attraction. He bit his lip and curled his face into the wet pillows, willing himself to disappear.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Unbeknownst to Erik, Raoul had been watching the whole time through the peeping eyes of a portrait painting he had had installed on the back wall of the bedroom. His initial intent had been to observe the Phantom in order to discover what clever methods the man might use to escape. Thus far, he had not even tried to get free as he cried convulsively into the pillows.

Abject guilt tormented Raoul’s mind as he observed the heartbreaking anguish he had created. Worse yet, he did not know what to do to fix it. It hurt knowing he had (mostly) the best of intentions in this endeavor. Christine loved him dearly, but she was not well without her Angel. Try as he might, Raoul could not convince her that Erik was not the Angel of Music her father had promised. Though the vicomte had felt intensely jealous, his love for Christine was so great that if she needed a man he saw as a direct competitor for her affections to be part of her life, then Raoul would make it so. Though Erik saw things differently, Raoul was not a selfish man by any stretch of the imagination. There was nothing he would not do to make his wife happy, not a thing in life he would deny her. She had but to ask. He had tried to bring Erik with him willingly at first. When the man had refused, however, Raoul had resorted to his backup plan—force.

One of the problems Raoul faced was his own anger at Erik which originated from the fact that the masked man continued to own part of Christine’s soul in spite of his complete absence from her life. This went on even after her well-attended wedding to the vicomte had taken place. What right did the musical madman have to butt in on his marriage to the woman he had loved since childhood? Since they had met again on the boardwalk, Raoul had been struggling to keep his jealousy under control. Yet, now and again, his resentment had reared its head whenever Raoul had mocked Erik’s helplessness and especially when he had beaten him with the rapier after their fight. He felt intensely guilty for these actions in retrospect. How he could make things better, he had not a clue, but the nobleman did not want to see the masked man suffer anymore.

The ship’s engines had started. They would be casting off soon and heading straight back to France. Raoul came to realize he was homesick, though he had only been gone a little over three months. In six and a half weeks, he would finally see his wife again. If he was lucky, he would be home in time for the Christmas holiday. Just the time to present Christine with her gift—the Angel of Music—whom Raoul had wasted no effort or expense to procure for her.

But would Christine be happy with him if he presented her with a broken-winged Angel? He had wanted to avoid crushing the man’s spirit too much, yet somehow establish and maintain his own authority.This was of utmost importance. If Erik spotted any weakness in Raoul at all, perhaps he would view it as an opening—an opportunity to replace the Vicomte de Chagny in Christine’s life entirely. Raoul was her number one, the head and master of their shared household. If Erik was going to be around at all, he needed to understand that his was a secondary role. It seemed to Raoul that the musical genius was accustomed to being in control all the time due to the man’s remarkable intelligence. No more. Raoul would not tolerate that type of behavior and if Erik did not like it, then too bad. The vicomte’s word was law, as far as he was concerned.

Still, Raoul needed to help Erik. If he broke him, Christine would be furious about it. That thought in mind, the nobleman emerged from his spy base and closed the secret door to conceal the location. He returned to his living quarters and rang the bell to call his attendants. Luc was the one to answer. “Oui?” the thin man inquired, peeking his head into his employer’s suite.

Raoul turned to him with an earnest smile on his face. “Chamomile tea with honey for two, please. Oh, and include two glasses and a pitcher of water with hand towels.”

Luc nodded. “Oui, Monsieur,” he said before he left to proceed to the ship’s galley. It was ten minutes before the man returned, rolling in a table with the requested items aesthetically arranged on top. Raoul nodded to him in thanks and waited until he left before rolling the table over to the bedroom door. He paused to unlock the door. Gently pushing it open, he peered inside to see the Phantom still there on the divan with his face buried in the pillows. It appeared that he had not moved a muscle. As before, Raoul rolled the table to the foot of the king-sized bed.

As Raoul went to unbind Erik’s arms and legs from the divan, the man flinched when he was touched, but he seemed too drained to struggle. When the vicomte pulled him into an upright position, his face was pale and his eyes looked haunted and bloodshot. “Erik, are you okay?”

No response.

Raoul sighed, rolled the table up to him and pulled up a chair for himself. “Have a drink,” he advised, pouring water into Erik’s glass. At least the troubled captive did not hesitate to down the glass. He then leaned over the cup of tea to let the hot fumes melt the congestion in his sinuses, letting his eyes slide shut. That was slightly encouraging. “You don’t look so well.”

Erik pulled his head up from the table and used a hand towel to wipe his nose. “I’m tired.“

“Then go to slee…”

“Of you.”

Raoul blinked. It took a second, but a smile graced his lips soon enough. “You’ll get used to me.”

“No, you don’t get it. You’re the one who drove me to madness. Now, you’re right back on the path to do it again and you damn well know that. Why? All for Christine, right? But you already know perfectly well that Christine doesn’t like me when I act crazy. So what’s the point?”

Raoul paused. “Drink the tea. It’s chamomile,” he suggested.

“Stop trying to change the subject.”

“Shedding tears does not a madman make, Erik,” Raoul countered, annoyed that the Phantom was trying to start yet another exhausting argument. “I think you know that.”

The masked musician tightened his jaw in response to Raoul’s acknowledgement of the fact that he had been crying. He loathed the man so much, at this point even more than the cruel showman Bamboli who had beaten Erik senseless for years. The vicomte had destroyed his life, taken everything he had held dear and worked for, even his very last glimmer of hope for love. While Erik was affluent in pocket, he was destitute when it came to community. Raoul had it all and it was so profoundly unfair. With his brows knitted, Erik turned his head up and met the vicomte eye to eye with the bitterest look he could muster. “Mark my words, Vicomte. I foresee you meeting a most untimely end, but not before you have thoroughly suffered for everything you’ve done to me. You will be one contrite son-of-a-bitch just before you die,” he hissed.

If looks could kill, Erik’s prediction would have come true then and there. Raoul felt a shiver up his spine, but he was not about to back down. He took a small spoon and swirled the tea in his cup before bringing it to his lips. “And you know what I foresee? I foresee you thanking me for this when all is said and done because somewhere deep down you desperately miss Christine.”

The Phantom recoiled at the remark.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

“But Maman!” Meg protested in desperation. The two women had been arguing for hours.

Madame Giry shook her head as she gathered her clothes into a large suitcase. “It’s too late. They’ve already taken his things. You’ve got to have faith that Erik can take care of himself. He is a grown man. Besides, I don’t want you getting hurt or arrested. I don’t trust that vicomte.”

“But what if Raoul tries to hurt him? The Master can’t defend himself while he’s tied down,” Meg pointed out, looking horrified at the very thought. “Maman, please!”

Madame Giry tilted her head to the side with a sympathetic expression. “I’m sure he would be touched knowing you care so much for his safety, but I meant what I said. Erik has proven time and time again he is perfectly capable of looking out for his own interests. My concern is what will happen once they get to France. For instance, what long-term plans does Raoul have for Erik’s confinement? He should know that his life will be in danger if Erik gets free, yet it seems the vicomte had his plans well laid thus far. I just don’t know. He had better not try to keep Erik cooped up forever, yet I fear what will happen if he doesn’t. That’s all I’m saying.”

Meg furrowed her brows angrily. “Maybe he’s banking on Christine’s siren song taming the proverbial beast,” she muttered. Just the thought of Christine using her voice to subjugate the Phantom was enough to grind Meg’s gears. She had so much repressed anger over the matter already that she thought she might explode. How would she fare in the weeks to come?

Madame Giry sighed as she continued to pack her things. “I don’t know, Meg. I really don’t know. But I do know that I’ll be very upset if the vicomte drives Erik to kill again, even if he himself is the first and last victim. Now, go pack. We cannot save Phantasma, Meg.”

Meg hesitated and then reluctantly nodded. “Alright, Maman,” she conceded. This did not mean that the vicomte was off the hook. Meg vowed to make him pay dearly for what he had done, but first she had to find a way to liberate the Phantom from Raoul’s bondage once they got to France.

Meg went to her room and opened the drapes to peer outside. Ayesha was asleep at the foot of the bed. The view from her window overlooked the Atlantic Ocean, a large lighthouse, and the boardwalk below. Her heart ached when she saw _La Dame Merveilleuse_ pull away from the port. Was it ten o’clock already? She sighed and touched the glass. Turning to her nightstand, she withdrew one of the Phantom’s masks from the drawer and held it close to her chest. It was the one she had recovered from Erik’s lair during the fire at the Opera Populaire. She had kept it for herself, not really sure why at first. Now, she knew why. She was mesmerized by its owner. She kissed the white mask on the part that would have been closest to his lips and put it away in her suitcase. “Don’t worry, Master. I’m coming,” she murmured to herself reassuringly.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Christine had not performed in months. She was heartsick. The man who inspired her voice to glamor was gone, likely never to be heard from again. Worse yet, her beloved husband had chosen a bad time to head off on one of his overseas ‘business ventures,’ as he called them. Christine had not asked for much information, though she had urged him to make it home by Christmas if he possibly could. His love was the one thing that kept her going in recent months. As Christine peered at the dark field of wild grasses behind the Chagny estate from the height of her bedroom balcony, she sighed deeply. She closed her eyes again and tried to imagine her Angel’s sweet voice singing of the splendors of nighttime. But with him no longer there to sing songs in her head, her imagination had run dry. It was an unbearable longing that Christine could not hope to sate on her own. A feeling of deep regret came when she recalled how she and Raoul had left her Angel to burn alone in an earthly hell two years back. They should have brought him with them, not left him to the mobs and flames. Fortunately, the newspapers reported that the culprit had not been caught. That was the one thing that gave Christine hope. She had wandered the catacombs herself days afterwards seeking him, but her searches had yielded nothing.

In honor of the Phantom’s legacy, Christine had sent out copies of _Don Juan Triumphant_ to theaters and opera houses throughout Italy and Spain. The dark opera had become prominent, its popularity fueled by the gruesome story surrounding its very first performance in the city of Paris. Christine herself had attended one of the early performances in Venice, which had been spectacularly well performed. As time progressed, however, she found herself craving more. The Phantom of the Opera’s old work simply was not enough anymore to meet her artistic needs.

“Madame de Chagny?” came the soft voice of Christine’s blonde maid.

Christine turned around, her lacy nightgown fluttering around her as she leaned her body back against the beautifully sculpted white marble balcony behind her. “Yes, Babette?”

“You should not be out here in nothing but a nightgown, Madame. It is getting colder and you have not been well,” Babette protested, coming to drape a large blanket over her shoulders.

Christine graciously accepted the item and wrapped it around her thin frame. Indeed, she had been shivering without even realizing it. She had lost a lot of weight, making it harder for her body to withstand the cold. “Thank you, Babette,” she sighed, giving the woman a light smile.

“Tell me, Madame. Why is it you miss this man so much? The newspapers painted a rather gruesome picture of him when the opera house burned. You said you were afraid of him once. Why not now?” the woman inquired, leaning on the balcony by Christine’s side. When the lady of the house sighed and turned back to face the open field, Babette followed suit.

Christine stared up at the stars before she opened her mouth. “I have seen his human side, Babette. He was a tortured soul only seeking the comfort the world denied him.” Christine bit her lip as her eyes stung with tears. “What I did hurt him deeply. I only wish I had the chance to make it up to him, but I never will and it’s all my fault,” she said, her voice breaking as she cast her face downward in shame. A droplet fell from her cheek, hitting the cold stone balustrade.

Babette frowned in sympathy. “You don’t know that for sure, Madame. You might see him again.” She pointed up at the heavens. “Just don’t forget to pray. Your papa is still watching even now, you know.” She paused and then added, “If you’d like, I can pray with you.”

Christine blinked. “That would be nice.” Babette offered her right hand to Christine, which held a string of rosary prayer beads. Christine adjusted her blanket and took hold of Babette’s hand.

They bowed their heads together. “Dear Heavenly Father, we thank and praise you for all the love and prosperity you have provided us. For the four seasons and each new day that the sun rises. For the rain and the frost and the fresh morning air. Please, continue to bless us as you have been doing all our lives. Help our hearts heal from tragedy and our spirits bounce back from despair. Protect us from the wicked works of Satan and help us to protect each other. If you please, God, my friend Christine and I have one additional favor to ask of you this time. Christine had been missing an old friend. Her heart is sick with longing. She blames herself for hurting him badly. With your grace, Lord, we would like for you to bring Christine’s Angel of Music back to us, at least for a time. Give Christine the opportunity to earn his forgiveness for the wrongs she has done him. And please forgive him yourself for the wrongs he has done. Take him by the hand and guide him into the Light. Lastly, please help the ignorant open their eyes to see that true beauty lies within. Help Christine’s Angel to reconcile with those he has hurt and those who have hurt him. In Jesus’s name, thank you and amen,” Babette finished.

“Amen,” Christine echoed, the tears falling faster now. She squeezed Babette’s hand and the rosary beads once tightly before she let go. Babette had always been the most devout Catholic in Raoul’s household. As such, she served as a spiritual guide for anyone who needed it. Christine did not know how she would ever get along without her maid. The young soprano rested her hands on the balcony as she let the significance of the prayer sink into her mind.

Babette put a hand over Christine’s. “It is late, Madame. You should head off to bed. Let me make you some herbal tea,” she offered. Gathering her skirts up in her hands, the maid headed back inside and held the door open for Christine. The brunette sighed up at the stars first before she followed. Babette closed the door and locked it. “Now, Madame, no more wandering around in the cold November air with only a nightshirt on. You’ll catch your death,” she said, turning to pull back the comforter on the king-sized bed that Christine shared with her husband.

Christine breathed a sigh and got under the covers, allowing her maid to tuck her in. “If you insist, Babette,” she replied curtly, yawning. “Herbal tea does sound lovely.”

“It’ll make you sleep like a baby,” Babette said, disappearing out the door. When she returned, she brought a portable tray with a single cup of tea, tendrils of steam rising from the top.

Christine took the cup and drank slowly. The temperature was between hot and warm, the way she liked it. Babette added a log to the fire and blew out the last candle as Christine murmured, “Babette, do you believe God and my father will send the Angel of Music back to me?”

Babette turned back to her with a relaxed smile as she was about to head out the door. The firelight made her green eyes sparkle. “Oui, Madame. But for that to happen, you must believe it will. Divine blessings are fueled by our faith. Never forget to pray and read the scriptures.”

Christine smiled back. Feeling reassured, she closed her eyes as the maid left and drifted off into spectacular and vivid dreams of her Angel and his beautiful haunting melodies.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The two men, both equally stubborn, had bickered until well past midnight. Eventually, Raoul started to feel truly drained from the long busy day. He tied Erik to the divan again and, losing patience, smacked him upside the head for being so endlessly argumentative.

“Ow!” Erik cried. “Gutless rat, I dare you to untie me and try that again!”

Raoul chuckled. “Not a chance. Now, go to sleep.”

“How am I to sleep now when I’ve been asleep the whole day, all thanks to you? You did this!”

“Don’t make me gag you, Erik. I’m quite bushed.”

“Aw, you poor rich fopdoodle. You want me to tell you a bedtime story?” Erik taunted.

Raoul laughed. “Nah, but you could sing me a lullaby if you want.”

Erik appeared to be incensed at the suggestion. “I only sing when I’m not tied down. This position compresses my diaphragm too much for a harmonious airflow,” he huffed.

“Excuses, excuses,” Raoul countered.

“It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason. Besides, why should I sing for you after all you’ve done to me? Your ears are unworthy,” Erik growled, tiring of the pointless conversation. “And in case you’re wondering, I don’t intend on letting you sleep tonight. Welcome to my hell, Vicomte.”

Raoul smacked the Phantom upside his head again. “I was serious about the gagging threat. Don’t tempt me. For the record, Erik, I’m not that easy to wake up,” he told him.

Erik snapped his head up and tried to bite the hand that swatted him, but he was not quick enough. He was, however, pleasantly surprised at the information Raoul had revealed. If the vicomte was difficult to wake up, that might give him an opportunity to escape. All he had to do was find a way to loosen or cut the ropes. He inwardly badgered himself for not taking the opportunity when he was alone previously, but he had been too upset at the time to think clearly. Besides, he suspected that Raoul might have been spying on him and he did not want to reveal his escapist methods. Erik sighed and pretended to settle down, but Raoul was not fooled. He decided to play it safe and give the Phantom a light sedative. When the needle came out of the drawer, Erik started to panic. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I’ll be quiet,” he exclaimed, wriggling in a feeble attempt to get loose as Raoul removed the cap of the syringe and approached him.

“Sorry, Erik. I got this sneaking suspicion just now that you might try to escape if I allow you to remain awake. Besides, this drug won’t knock you out cold like the other one did. It’ll only make you drowsy,” Raoul revealed as he knelt down next to Erik’s rope-bound legs.

 _But that won’t make it hurt any less,_ Erik thought, squirming as much as he could. He had a fear of needles as well as dogs, the former because they hurt and the latter because they were used to terrorize him when he was young. It was one of the many reasons he had so hated the dog-loving Carlotta years back. “No! Get away from me!” he shouted in vain as Raoul plunged the needle into his flesh without so much as skipping a beat. _“Ack!”_ he howled in pain.

Raoul yawned as he withdrew the needle. “If you’d relax the muscle, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” he said as he tossed the syringe and went behind the divider to change into his nightshirt.

“How am I supposed to do that when you’re trying to stab said muscle?” Erik roared at the top of his lungs. He was enraged not only by the vicomte’s nonchalance, but by the violation of his personal bodily sanctity. How dare the fop keep assaulting him with pointy things when he had already been rendered bound and defenseless. Such actions only added insult to injury.

“Do you ever stop complaining?” Raoul countered, losing his patience. Erik gave him a middle finger in response. “Don’t make me bind your fingers too. Then you won’t be able to eat.”

“Great. Then I’ll die before we get to France and you won’t be able to use me for whatever that perverse twisted scheme is that you have in mind,” the musician bit out angrily.

Raoul sat down on his oversized bed and lay on his back, peering up at the painted candlelit ceiling overhead. “I thought you didn’t want to die,” he questioned shortly.

“I don’t. But if you bind my fingers, I’ll starve,” Erik pointed out in an unexpectedly calm voice. He bit back a yawn. “I refuse to submit to the indignity of being hand-fed,” he almost slurred.

Raoul blinked and glanced over at the Phantom as one of Erik’s eyelids involuntarily drooped. “Getting sleepy already? That sedative must have been more powerful than I thought.”

Hearing this, Erik’s eyes snapped open. He shook his head to wake himself up. Raoul chuckled at the feeble attempt. “I’m not going to fall asleep,” Erik stubbornly decreed.

The vicomte grinned devilishly and reached for his nightstand drawer. He pulled out a miniature sculpture on a stand made of Italian painted wood. The structure featured three tiny couples dressed in opulent costumes with masks. Each couple appeared to be frozen in mid-dance. Raoul wound up the knob on the bottom and let it go. _Masquerade_ began to play in soft tinkling notes as the couples started to spin around the central floor, which was beautifully hand-painted. It was Christine who had previously informed Raoul of her Angel’s fondness for the song.

Erik’s eyes grew wide for a moment. “You son-of-a…” he began, his eyelids growing heavy. It was just so tempting to close his eyes and give into the alluring darkness, yet he resisted.

Raoul chuckled.

“Shut up!” Erik growled, using the last of his strength to shake his head to wake himself up.

 _“Masquerade, paper faces on parade. Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you…”_ Raoul murmured in time to the music. He was not a terrible singer, nor was he a great singer, but his voice was sufficient to serve the purpose that Raoul intended. It looked like the Phantom was losing the fight with fatigue, so Raoul wound up the music box again and placed it on the nightstand, humming to the music. _“Goodnight, Erik,”_ he murmured. The man’s eyes were already closed and he had gone still. Raoul got up from the bed and went to put blankets over his nemesis. When he was done, he crawled under his own comforter and fell asleep.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The lighter sedative did not suppress the brain’s tendency to dream. Erik’s reveries never started out sweetly, not since Christine had left him. His slumber was like before Christine had ever come to the opera house, just one grisly nightmare after another. He twitched and quivered in his sleep as he tried to run away from the torch-wielding mobs. His future held two options only; running forever or burning forever in the fiery pits of hell. Erik’s subconscious preferred to run, obviously. It was a never-ending cycle between running, hiding, capture, torment, and escape. Running, hiding, capture, torment, and escape. There was no way to break free, no way out, and absolutely no rest—not in the depths of the Phantom’s disturbed subconscious mind.

“Demon spawn.”

“Bastard son of Satan.”

“Hideous beast.”

“You’re dirty and disgusting, boy.”

“Wicked devil-child.”

“Hell-bound halfling.”

“Nobody will ever love you.”

“Can’t be human.”

Erik was barefoot again, his head stuffed in a burlap bag. He was running away, running from the mobs that bayed for his blood. The night was dark, but torches flickered like hellfire against stone walls. This time Antoinette Beaumont, the young Madame Giry, was absent. Erik searched instinctively for the opera house, but could not find it. _“No way out,”_ a voice whispered. The mob grew closer before the world chattered into reflective pieces like shards of a broken mirror.

Erik was falling with the fragments, falling and falling just before he landed on the hard earth with a painful thud. He lay prone, his masked face buried in the dirt. A firelight flickered from up ahead, but he dared not raise his head to look. A familiar shriek shattered his eardrums with an accompaniment of cruel laughter. Try as he might to keep from looking, a strong hand yanked the bag off his head and grabbed him by the hair to force his head up against his will.

“Look at me. Look what they’ve done!”

Gazing up through glassy eyes, there he beheld his friend’s form engulfed in fire. The deformed boy’s skin charred black and split with blood like lava and stone crackling across his form, burning all the way down to the bone. It was Erik’s old friend Cricket from the freak show. He had been known as Cricket Boy on account of the fact that he was born with backwards-bending knees and hip joints, much like the insect of the same name. Erik beheld the boy’s misshapen figure chained to the log pile as he burnt up in the bonfire. His eyeballs burst from the heat and his fat burned away to a gaunt terror that reached down, reached out toward Erik.

Spindly fingers of thin bone and darkness reached to claw at him, tearing at his skin, his shorts, his eyes, his hair. All the while, Erik tried to scream. No sound came out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried. His mother’s barely audible voice whispered in his ear, though the cruel woman was nowhere to be seen. “I never wanted you. Do us all a favor and die. Just die.” The black mass erupted into lava-red and stuck itself to the right side of Erik’s face, burning into him like hellfire. Finally, his lungs burst forth with the most bloodcurdling scream conceivable.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Erik wailed like something out of hell’s gates. His body thrashed so violently that it caused the divan to topple over onto the side table next to it, shattering the glass top. Erik kept screaming and thrashing to escape the sight of his friend’s punishment, a grisly penalty for the crime of attempting to escape a second time. The ropes were too strong. He could not get free. The dream illusion continued as the real rope binds and the divan’s weight pinned Erik to the floor.

The screams so startled the vicomte that he tumbled out of bed and hit the floor. His heart had begun to race before his brain even woke up enough to assess what was going on. _“No way out! No way out!”_ he heard a male voice shriek repeatedly. As soon as Raoul looked around and realized where he was and what was transpiring, he scrambled over to the toppled divan. Seeing Erik trapped beneath it with broken glass, he snapped to attention and put on his slippers.

Raoul could not reach far enough under the divan to unbind Erik from the structure. Instead, he turned to the closet to retrieve his rapier. He held Erik’s flailing arms and legs out of the way as he sliced through the ropes binding him to the couch and pushed the piece of furniture off of him. “Erik, wake up!” he shouted. Grabbing the back of Erik’s shirt, he hauled him directly up off the floor to avoid dragging him over the glass. When his head was up, Raoul wrapped his other arm around the Phantom’s waist and boosted him up and away from the shards entirely.

Raoul set him down on the bed. Erik’s thrashing had soon calmed down a bit and given way to sobbing as the drug Raoul had used kept the man in an unsettled state. Tears streamed from his closed eyes and he groaned in anguish as the vicomte laid him out on the bed to examine him for injuries. After lighting the gas lamp on the nightstand, Raoul could see blood on Erik’s face. “Get away from me! Leave me alone!” the disturbed dreamer roared at his hallucinations.

Raoul thought Erik was addressing him. “I can’t. You’re hurt,” he countered. “Stay still.” He disappeared into the lavatory to procure medical supplies. When he got back, Erik was trying to crawl away. Raoul caught him by the rear of his cummerbund, pulled him back, and flipped him over. He sat on the man to keep him in place with his arms pinned to his torso and began to dab Erik’s face with a moist linen to clean up the blood. The writhing musician was not making the task easy. “Stop squirming!” Raoul ordered, taking a candle to hold up close. He saw pieces of glass embedded in Erik’s left cheek and another piece in the side of his chin. The vicomte used his left hand to hold Erik’s forehead down as he used tweezers to pluck the pieces out and lay them on a spare linen. Raoul wiped up the blood again and examined Erik’s face thoroughly to see if he had missed any pieces. It appeared that the porcelain mask had successfully shielded the right side of the delirious man’s face from the shards, which was fortunate. Raoul bandaged up the bleeding cuts and tossed the waste in the bin. Meanwhile, Erik had gone still and stiff, squeezing his eyes shut as he watered the comforter with silent tears. His chest heaved from the effects of the nightmare and he quivered violently as his face went ghostly pale. Raoul pulled him into a seated position and patted the masked side of his face. “Erik, can you hear me?” he asked, sitting next to his captive on the comforter since the man had stopped thrashing.

Erik teeter-tottered from one side to another, the sedative still causing him considerable muscle weakness and confusion. He almost toppled off the bed, but Raoul caught him. _“No way out,”_ he whispered below his breath, choking a bit on the phlegm in the back of his throat.

“Of where?” Raoul asked, holding the back of his head and using linen to dab his eyes. He put the cloth down and snapped his fingers a few times at Erik to awaken him from the trance he was in. “What on God’s green earth were you dreaming about?” He reached to his nightstand where his glass of water sat, dipped his fingers in, and sprinkled some of it onto Erik’s face.

Erik heaved, “Hell.”

“Hell?”

Erik shakily nodded. “Murder, torture, fire. Hell.”

Raoul was truly aghast. He had never seen or even heard of anyone having such violent night terrors. He placed a hand on Erik’s chest to find his heart still pounding wildly. “You don’t have to go there, Erik. You can ask for forgiveness, you know,” the vicomte indicated.

The masked man shook his head. The vicomte did not seem to understand. “No, I’ve been there,” Erik murmured. “I’ve seen it. There’s no way out once you’ve been there.” As exhausted as he was, the musical genius dreaded the thought of going back to sleep. He found himself oddly starting to wish Raoul had used the stronger drug instead. At least that way he would not have any dreams at all. The Phantom squeezed his eyes shut as Raoul dabbed his face again. “I was there before I was born and I will go back when I die. There’s no way out. Not for me.”

Raoul blinked in confusion, taken aback. He had not a clue what Erik was talking about. How could someone have been in hell before they were born? “You’re talking in riddles. That doesn’t make sense,” he protested, unsure how to go about making a counterargument. He looked Erik in the eyes and said, “You, my friend, must see a licensed medical professional. And you will the moment we arrive in Chagny. I’ll make sure of it. I know many excellent doctors.”

“No! No doctors,” Erik protested, shaking his head furiously. Raoul was forced to tighten his grip on the Phantom to prevent him from falling off the bed as he tried again to wriggle away. “Doctors can’t help me and they wouldn’t even if they could!” he fervently argued.

Raoul drew his brows together. “How do you know? Have you tried to see a doctor about this before?” Erik gave him a confused and dreary look. “About your night terrors, I mean.”

“I’ve never seen a doctor, period,” Erik established. “For anything.”

“Not ever?” Raoul responded with a tone of disbelief. He truly found that hard to believe.

Erik shook his head and gestured to his mask. “Outcasts can’t see doctors.”

“They can and you will! You’re seeing one whether you like it or not and that’s final.”

“No!”

“How often do you get these nightmares?”

“Whenever I fall asleep.”

“Does Madame Giry know about this?”

“About what?”

“Your night terrors,” Raoul clarified.

“Yes, she knows. Why does that matter?”

“And she’s never tried to make you see a doctor?”

Erik was tempted to laugh. “Netta is well aware that she can’t make me do anything,” he argued. “She would help if she could, but she cannot and she knows it. No mortal can control fate.”

Raoul blinked, not having realized Madame Giry’s name was Netta. He assumed it was short for Antoinette. “Don’t be so quick to assume this is your fate. What has she tried?” he asked.

“She is the one who suggested I learn to compose music. It is my only refuge now.”

“But does it help with the night terrors?”

Erik sighed. “I can’t play and sleep at the same time. So, no. It doesn’t, but it helps when I’m awake.” He paused. “Is there an antidote to this drug you have me on?” he beseeched.

“I’m afraid not, but it will wear off in a few hours. Why?”

“I don’t want to sleep anymore,” Erik grumbled, his eyes closed. He tried to shake his head to wake himself up, but it was not working very well. “Please, don’t make me sleep anymore.”

Raoul sat up straight and leaned over toward the head of the bed to adjust the pillows. “You’ll be alright for tonight. I’ll make sure of that,” he replied in a tone of confidence.

Erik barely cracked an eye open to look at him in curiosity. Whatever the vicomte had planned, the Phantom had not a clue. “How?” he murmured curiously, shivering involuntarily.

Raoul cleared his throat. “When I was about six years old,” he began, “and this is before I met Christine, by the way, I had a very unfortunate event transpire in my life. I was kidnapped one evening in April by a pair of criminals who intended to ransom me back to my family for a lot of money. I had been down by the lake minding my own business and they ambushed me. It was terrifying. They threatened me with knives and said that if my family did not pay by a certain time, they were going to start cutting pieces off of me and sending the severed parts to my parents as a warning. Well, my family did pay on time and I was returned safely. In the weeks following that event, I had these horrific nightmares that plagued my every sleeping moment. I would wake up screaming and crying. The problem was my parents were away on business, trying to hire bounty hunters to bring the kidnappers to justice. Instead of going to them, I crawled into bed with my older sister Sophie and stopped having nightmares. Whenever I woke up from a nightmare, I would go sleep next to Sophie and the nightmares would stop. It made me feel safe to be near my sister. Eventually, I stopped having nightmares about the event entirely and was able to go back to sleeping on my own, though that was several months later.”

“I don’t have sisters. I’ve been an outcast since birth, even with my flesh-and-blood family.”

Raoul smiled amateurishly. “Then, in your case, just another human person will have to do. No relation,” he replied, walking around the bed to correct the position of the comforter. It had gotten a bit messed up while he was treating Erik’s injuries. He returned to the side of the bed where Erik was sitting and pulled back the blanket and sheets. The musician observed through half-lidded eyes as the vicomte pulled the bedside armchair forward and sat down, winding up the music box on the nightstand. The song _Masquerade_ began to play yet again.

“W-wait, what are you…?” Erik began to protest just before he was suddenly and quite unexpectedly pulled into Raoul’s lap and covered up with velvet blankets. His first impulse was to heave and thrash to escape. “What are you doing?!” A feeling of deep warmth permeated his body to the core quickly through it all, throwing his senses into confusion. “Lemme go!”

Raoul shushed him and wrapped the blankets tighter. “Quiet down and go to sleep.”

Erik hyperventilated for a few brief moments before his heart rate gradually calmed to a slow beat, his struggles weakening as Raoul started to rock back and forth slightly. Never before had Erik been held by another human being, not like this. He had been grabbed and pushed and pulled and brutalized, but never held gently. A strange mixture of emotions welled up inside of him as Raoul settled them into the armchair. His head rested in the crook of the vicomte’s neck as he felt the blankets pulled tighter, forming a protective cocoon and restricting his movements. His face flushed both from the warmth of the situation and from complete mortification. Having almost settled down, he suddenly blurted, “No, wait, you can’t! I’m not a child!”

Raoul chuckled. “Then don’t act like one,” he teased in a low voice. “That’s beside the point. Anyone who suffers from nightmares should be held at the very least and it’s not like Christine’s here to do it. You’d probably be too heavy for her anyway. She’s always been a slight woman.”

Erik tried to squirm, but he started to feel paralyzed. It was as if his muscles and willful mind had been hijacked. He could not so much as think of a comeback to Raoul’s snarky remark, though he desperately wanted to. He could not fully relax either, at least not until Raoul started humming to the tune of the music box. When he put his arms around Erik fully and squeezed him, all his remaining resistance disintegrating like dry wood shavings in a blazing fire.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” Raoul whispered as Erik slumped like a rag doll. The young vicomte waited until Erik fell asleep before putting him in the bed and getting in next to him. He pulled the comforter around them both and rewound the music box before nodding off himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Raoul was the first to wake up in the morning, as his slumber had not been drug induced. He rose about thirty minutes before breakfast and went about his normal morning routine of oral hygiene and dressing himself. When he had finished, the bell on the wall rang, indicating breakfast had just arrived. He moved the divan away from the broken glass, positioning it on the opposite side of the room, and scooped Erik out of bed. The sleeper grumbled a wordless complaint upon being exposed to the chilly morning air in the room. Raoul draped a blanket over his shoulders and another over his lap once he had placed the masked man back down on the divan.

While Erik slumped against the head of the divan, Raoul went to open the door for Luc. The chef entered with a rolling table full of morning dishes. After nervously taking notice of Erik and his bandaged face, his eyes fell upon the broken glass on the floor. “There was a little accident last night,” Raoul explained. “If you could please get Rémy to clean up the mess, I’d appreciate it.”

Luc swallowed and nodded, jumping in alarm as the Phantom’s eyes snapped open the moment his olfactory senses detected the aroma of food. Raoul took the table and rolled it over to him, not failing to notice his immediate interest in the cuisine. Luc felt relieved that the masked man’s interest was focused not on him but breakfast instead. “Rémy should be in right after breakfast to clean your chambers, Monsieur,” he replied, just before disappearing from the room.

Raoul smiled as Luc retreated. By the time he pulled up a chair to join Erik at the table, the man was already busy gorging himself on French toast and pork sausages. Raoul said nothing at first and started eating his own breakfast as he watched the Phantom for signs of aggression. It seemed to Raoul that his methods of the previous night had rendered Erik docile. The question was, would the effect last? In spite of his bindings, the temperamental man seemed considerably calmer than he had been the day before. He looked neither angry nor tense. However, the ultimate deciding factor would come at the end of the meal, as far as Raoul was concerned.

It was not until a good fifteen minutes later that the Phantom finished eating his breakfast. Raoul looked at him in expectation. Erik looked up and met his gaze. “I have to pee,” the masked man asserted in a neutral tone. Raoul’s eyes popped open in surprise at first, though in retrospect he realized he should not have been surprised at all. The musical genius had been held hostage for two nights in a row and not once had he requested to use the bathroom until now.

Raoul decided to take his chances. He pushed the breakfast table aside and knelt in front of Erik, withdrawing the dagger he kept in his right boot from its sheath. The ropes binding the Phantom’s legs were tied in a manner which made them near impossible to untie without cutting through them. Raoul had bound him thus on purpose to prevent his free hands from being used to untie his calves when the vicomte’s back was turned. He sliced through the ropes and untied the rest of the knots, freeing Erik’s legs. Then, to Erik’s surprise, Raoul began to unbind his arms as well. The vicomte was taking a big leap of faith. “You know where the lavatory is,” Raoul said, pointing to the door. “When you’re done, I’ll have my servants draw you a bath.”

Erik was more or less speechless. When his arms were free, the first thing he did was rub his sore wrists and forearms. His homicidal ire at Raoul had vanished overnight, which left him feeling a confusing mix of emotions. Different thoughts began to swirl in his mind. Maybe the new opera house would not be so bad. Maybe Christine would be nice to him when they met again. Raoul’s actions the previous night had prevented the nightmares from resurfacing, just as the nobleman had indicated. The Phantom no longer saw him as a threat. All Erik remembered dreaming about from that point on was big clouds with musical lightning, though the visuals of the memory had grown fuzzy. He never had such frivolous dreams, so for Erik it was a blessing.

Without saying a word, Erik rose and headed to the bathroom. Once he had relieved himself, he washed his hands with soap and water and headed back to the bedroom. Raoul observed him as he came back in and headed straight to the dresser to obtain the brown folder containing his own work. He leafed through the pages. “I need parchment,” he said, indicating a creative urge.

“This way,” Raoul replied, leading him to the study. He pointed to the shelves near the back. “Second shelf from the bottom, left side. Have fun. I’ll notify you when the bath is ready.” He left Erik alone in the study, only locking the door silently as a precaution. When he passed by his bedroom again, Rémy was already in there cleaning up. The Frenchman looked very nervous as he worked, glancing around as he wondered where the Phantom had gone. It was then he noticed the discarded rope on the ground. He pointed at it and shrieked in a high-pitched voice. “Relax, my friend. Erik is in the study. In addition to your other duties, I need you to run a bath please,” he instructed, just before heading out of the suite. He had to see someone for a quick meeting.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Erik was halfway through recording the song he had heard in his dream on paper when Raoul reappeared, indicating the bath was ready. Erik proceeded to the bathroom, rather surprised at the luxurious setting that had been laid out for him. Aromatic steam rose from the surface of the water in an elegantly sculpted four-legged bathtub. Clean clothes were neatly folded on a nearby bench, underneath the rack from which location hung a thick velvety towel. On the sink were aesthetically arranged floss, toothpaste, toothbrush, hairbrush, razor, and shaving cream.

Judging from the water’s scent, Erik figured the servants had applied herbal bath oils. He at least detected the essence of lavender and a hint of chamomile. He tossed his clothes in the nearby laundry basket as he disrobed, finding that the bathwater was almost too hot for him as he tried to get in. Rather than complain, he waited for it to cool a bit before he got in all the way. He had never taken a hot bath before. Because his only source of water at the Opera Populaire had been the underground lake, which was always a reliable sixty degrees, he was accustomed to bathing in cool water. Even on Coney Island, the musician had continued this habit unabated.

Gradually, he began to notice as the hot water in the bath relaxed his muscles and made him feel rejuvenated, clearing his sinuses and pores. He tossed his black wig to the sink counter and took off his mask, washing the porcelain piece both inside and out before he gently placed it on the bath-side bench. He lathered his hair and body thoroughly and rinsed, repeating the routine. As he washed his face with the washcloth, he felt the bandages still stuck to his skin and gently peeled them off and tossed them in the waste basket. The cuts had scabbed over, so he left them alone to avoid making them bleed again. He washed his hands, feet, and underarms until he was thoroughly clean and lounged in the water a bit longer than usual simply because it felt nice.

When Erik was done, he pulled the plug of the basin. The tub drained as he reached for the towel and began to dry himself. He wrapped the towel around his waist when he finished. He would have avoided looking in the mirror if it were not for the fact that he badly needed to shave. Instead, he focused his eyes on the facial hair that needed to be removed, working as quickly as he could without cutting himself. Finishing, he washed his face off and cleaned his teeth. He groomed the hair of his wig with the brush and wiped the inner lining with a moist cloth.

The brilliant musician put on his drawers, black dress trousers, and leather belt, using the towel to dry his light brown hair before he brushed it thoroughly and put on his white dress shirt. He skipped the vest entirely and finished off by putting the black wig and white porcelain mask back on. When he left the bathroom, he was shocked by the sudden temperature change. Indeed, the vicomte had felt the cold as well and was working on starting a fire in the fireplace. “Come and sit by the fire, Erik. I do believe it’s colder this morning than it was last night,” Raoul remarked, stoking the flames. Erik hesitated for a moment, but the temptation of heat overcame his timidity. He sat down on the plush rug in front of the open fireside, crossing his legs. Raoul was seated to the left on the armchair he had used the previous night. He put down the fire poker and reached over to the nightstand, handing Erik the piece he had been working on in the study. “So you can write music even without the assistance of a musical instrument? I find that impressive.”

Erik nodded. “Anyone competent in musical composition should be able to do that in my opinion. I prefer to work with an organ, but I assume you don’t have one in your suite.”

“Indeed, I don’t,” Raoul replied. “But there is one in the chapel.”

Erik’s eyes widened and he quickly shook his head. Chapels and other holy places made him uneasy. The voices of his past had told him in no uncertain terms that he would burst into flame or melt if he so much as set foot on the grounds of a cathedral. Hence, he never went near such places. The only holy place he had ever been near was the chapel of the Opera Populaire—and even that location had made him feel tense. “It doesn’t matter. I can wait,” he indicated.

“Well, I know you don’t like the idea of going out in public, but there are times at night when the chapel is closed. I’m in a rather privileged position and I can get you in if you want to use the organ then,” the vicomte offered, frowning as Erik shook his head again. He decided to change the subject. “We need to talk about your night terrors,” the nobleman put forth.

Erik blinked in consternation. “I don’t want to talk about my night terrors.”

Raoul put a hand up. “All I want to know right now is how you fared after the accident last night. You did not toss and turn at all, so am I correct to assume you slept alright?” he inquired.

The Phantom looked down at the floor as his face flushed. It was an embarrassing topic. The fact that he needed to be consoled like a child despite being thirty-six years of age was not news that he wanted spreading. Then again, to his good fortune, he recalled Raoul had mentioned that he would keep it a secret. That was a relief. But it was still embarrassing that the vicomte himself knew about it. Erik felt a mild sense of fear that Raoul might use the information to needle him with later. He certainly hoped that the vicomte would not do that. Erik had no clue how he might react. “It was fine,” came Erik’s blunt reply. He hoped a change of subject was in order soon.

“Good. Now, how do you feel about my proposal?” Raoul asked. “The new opera house is going to be called the Opera Spectaculaire and we expect its grandeur to surpass that of the old Opera Populaire at least threefold. The demand for new and unusual forms of entertainment in Paris has grown exponentially in the past two years. The construction on the new building began last year and we expect it to take another year or two until it becomes usable. Beyond that, work will still continue on it in the off-season for five, if not ten years. A great deal of money has been invested in this enterprise. In the meantime, we have a much smaller theater right at home in Chagny, the Théâtre des Copiaus, which could use a little more love and attention. It performs ballets, operas, plays, and even the occasional magic show.” The young vicomte reached into the drawer of his nightstand, retrieving a blue folder which he then handed to Erik. “Those are the most up-to-date blueprints for the architecture of the Opera Spectaculaire. I thought you might be interested.”

Erik was indeed interested. He opened up the folder and began to scan the layouts of the new opera house. After a few moments, he raised a brow in curiosity. “There’s a courtyard?”

Raoul nodded. “The manager suggested that green space might be nice for galas. If you look on the next page, you can see there will be a large glass dome to keep out the cold with windows that can be opened and closed depending on the weather. In winter, it will be like a greenhouse.”

Erik hesitated a moment and then sighed, shaking his head. “Where do I fit into this?”

Raoul waved a hand toward him. “You’re the musical genius, the artistic mastermind. You manage everything to do with the arts. The manager I spoke of deals with everything else from finances to publicity. I’ve made sure he knows he has no place in casting or play bills.”

Erik nodded. All sounded good so far. “Okay, but where would I live?” he questioned. “I see no plans for an underground dwelling. The cellars here only contain storage space.”

“You wouldn’t live underground. That’s not good for your health, Erik. If you become a part of this, there are a number of options for living arrangements for you. You could sign a contract and live in the opera house itself—in the penthouse above the dormitories of the tower. Alternatively, you could also choose to reside at my Paris flat, which is nearby the location. If you prefer a less busy area, my brother and I own a manor right outside of the city. However, if it turns out that you don’t like big houses, that’s fine too. We also own several country cottages surrounding Paris. Take your pick,” he expressed, waving his hand in the air to illustrate the extensive options the musical genius had to choose from. “Now, during the off-season,” he continued, “I would like for you to live on my family’s estate in Chagny with Christine and I. That way you can continue music lessons with her. Whatever you choose, I think it’s important that you live in a place where you can get plenty of sunlight. It’s not healthy to live in the darkness all the time. Not for your mind or body,” Raoul explained. Erik resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. The masked man did not like being lectured. “Even your tower on Coney Island was dark, I noticed,” the vicomte remarked. “I saw there were no balconies or skylights or anything. I don’t know what drives you to live that way, but I’d strongly discourage you from continuing to do so.”

Erik’s face fell. He did not really want to delve into his complex reasons for preferring a dark environment, so he brought up the simplest one. “It inspires me. I hear things in the dark I can’t hear in the light. The world is quieter. Underground, I can hear music in my mind free from outside distractions.” Erik’s eyes popped open. “Wait, did you say something about a contract?”

“Yes, you would have to sign one contract to live in the opera house and then another to work there. You want to receive a salary, right? You can be as antisocial as you like and communicate with staff through notes if you prefer, but you must sign a contract to make this whole thing legitimate. And you will sign it with your real name, Erik Destler. No Opera Ghost, Phantom of the Opera, or Mr. Y. That wasn’t a good chapter in your life and you should leave those identities behind you,” Raoul advised. “Do you have a birth certificate, by any chance?”

It was rather obvious to Erik that he would not be able to use the name Phantom anymore, since the Phantom of the Opera was technically a wanted man in all of France. But using his real name made him nervous too for some reason that he could not quite put his finger on, even though the only people who knew it currently were Raoul, Madame Giry, Meg, Rémy, and Luc. “No, my birth was never recorded as far as I know,” he admitted. “I don’t believe that it was considered a happy occasion that anyone would actually want to remember. Even now my memories of my origins are vague, but I do know that my real last name is Destler. I was never provided a given name until I met Netta. She is the one who named me Erik, not my parents or the gypsies.”

Raoul laced his fingers together. Erik’s testimony made him want to know more, but he did not want to pry too much into the man’s private affairs too soon. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied. “Luckily, the birth certificate is not a necessity. But for legal documents from now on, use Erik Destler,” Raoul stated, happy to receive a nod from Erik. The masked man gave the blueprints back and picked up the song he had been working on. “I’ll let you get back to work,” conveyed the vicomte. He rose to his feet, patting Erik’s shoulder as he walked past him to the door. “I have an affair to attend until noon. Stay out of trouble and please refrain from terrorizing my servants. I’d much appreciate the favor.” With that, the younger gentleman was gone.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The voyage on _La Dame Merveilleuse_ was intended as a recreational cruise for the affluent. In spite of that, Raoul preoccupied himself primarily by talking trade and business with several enterprising American businessmen who were willing to pay premium prices for shipments of the famous wines of Chagny. It was an opportunity to make more money for the commune and to help expand his family’s renowned wineries. As much as Raoul preferred to watch over the masked menace, he knew his relatives would not want him to miss such an opportunity. Business with America was booming and anyone would be a fool not to take advantage of it.

Richard Billington, the CEO of a popular American restaurant chain, had invited Raoul to lunch in the dining hall, but Raoul was forced to decline until the following day, as he thought it of paramount importance that he check on Erik at noon. Plus, Luc had orders to prepare lunch and Raoul did not want it to go to waste—not that Erik would necessarily let that happen. The masked man had quite a large appetite. Mr. Billington was a hard man to escape conversation with and, as a result, Raoul was running a few minutes late. By the time he arrived at his suite, he found his two manservants pressed up against the door. Rémy seemed to be trying to use his bulk to barricade the door closed. “Monsieur de Chagny, Monsieur de Chagny! The Opera Ghost is loose! He has escaped!” Rémy cried, sweating bullets. “Alors, I am too young to die!”

Raoul raised a brow in confusion. “What’s wrong? Did he attack you?”

They both shook their heads. “He laughed! We turned and ran before he had a chance to get us, Monsieur,” Luc replied. “How are you to contain him again? He’s a real trickster. For all we know, he might’ve found your rapier by now. Perhaps, he has even escaped through a window!”

“He’ll kill us all!” Rémy cried.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, I implore you both to relax,” Raoul blurted in an effort to calm his frenzied attendants. “Forgive me, this is clearly my fault. I neglected to notify you two that I untied Erik this morning. Now, I don’t believe he plans to harm either of…”

 _“You what?”_ Luc wailed.

Rémy looked faint. “Why would you do this, Monsieur? You know how dangerous he is!”

Raoul was starting to lose his patience. “Listen, gentlemen. Erik will not hurt you if you are nice to him. That is what I’ve discovered. Besides, it is cruel to keep someone bound up for too long. How are they to use the restroom in that state? It would be next to impossible.”

It was a valid point, but Luc and Rémy still looked extremely hesitant and were scared stiff. They looked at each other and then back up at Raoul before swallowing simultaneously.

“Please, get up off the floor,” Raoul implored. “Lunch is inside, I presume? I’ve worked up quite an appetite, so why don’t the two of you retire to the servants’ quarters for now?” He shooed them both away from the door, got out his key, unlocked the door, and went inside. It seemed Luc and Rémy had knocked over a chair or two during their race to flee the suite. Raoul righted them as he glanced over to see the bedroom door ajar. When he peeked in, Erik was at the table eating. He seemed to be grinning slightly. “You didn’t wait for me?” Raoul lightly protested as he walked in and pulled up a chair. He plopped down and met eyes with Erik. “My manservants mentioned to me that you laughed at them,” he remarked, curious to see the other's reaction.

“Indeed, I did,” the man in the mask readily admitted without so much as a moment’s hesitation. “They are both chickenhearted buffoons and their fear amuses me greatly.”

Raoul got to work on his own plate of quiche lorraine. He cleared his throat and sipped some water. “Hm. You know, I wonder if amusement is your true reaction to their fear or if you are using it as a defensive mechanism to cover up another deeper emotional response.”

The Phantom stopped chewing and smiled thinly at Raoul before swallowing. “You think it makes me sad?” he scoffed. “Not at all. I don’t care what those two think of me.”

Raoul gave Erik an honest look, unconvinced. Erik mirrored the expression back at him in an exaggerated manner. Raoul leaned forward, as did Erik. “You know what I think?”

“No,” Erik retorted. “Tell me what you think.”

“I think you want people to love you,” Raoul surmised. “If you can’t get them to love you, then you’ll settle with making them fear you. At least that way no one can hurt you. You remain in control and, therefore, safe from harm. You do so to protect yourself, do you not?”

The musician snorted. “Wouldn’t anyone?”

Raoul nodded. “Precisely. It’s a very human coping mechanism.”

Erik paused, feeling slightly self-conscious. “Well, you should’ve seen the way they stumbled over one another to escape. It _was_ funny,” he pointed out before he went back to eating.

Raoul lightly rolled his eyes and ate another mouthful. After chewing and swallowing, he added, “I wonder if you might do me a favor and try to make friends with them during this voyage.”

Erik swallowed, put down his fork, and wiped his mouth. Then he held up a finger. “Here’s a better idea. You tell the stooges to approach me in the interests of friendship and I’ll promise to reciprocate if they do. I’ll not put myself in a position to be rejected again.” He took his fork and stabbed it through a piece of salad without even breaking eye contact with the vicomte.

“Fair enough,” Raoul replied, more pleased than he let on. “And, for the record, their names are Luc and Rémy—Luc being the skinny one. Try to address them by name and refrain from calling them chickenhearted buffoons, especially to their faces. That’s not very nice.”

Erik suppressed the urge to roll his eyes in response and simply nodded. They continued to eat in silence for a few more minutes until the masked man finished and rose to his feet.

“Fence with me in forty-five minutes?” Raoul suggested, causing Erik to abruptly turn back in his direction with a brow raised in curiosity. “This suite has a private courtyard,” the nobleman explained. “I thought you might like to try fencing, since you seem to enjoy swordplay.”

“Don’t expect me to obey rules,” Erik said. “I practice to win a real sword fight, not for sport.”

Raoul frowned and pleaded, “Please, it’s good exercise. What else are we to do on this voyage? We can’t exactly go horseback riding.” Erik looked skeptical at his words. “Unless you know a way for us to engage in such serious practice without injuring or killing each other.”

“I do, but we would need heavy armor.”

“I have that at home, but not here on the ship, I’m afraid,” Raoul returned. “Come, Erik, you should try fencing. I can teach you the rules. It’s more fun than you might think.”

Erik rolled his eyes at Raoul, but then gradually conceded with a nod. “I can’t guarantee I won’t get bored in the first five minutes,” the genius warned, turning to retreat to the study.

“Great!” Raoul enthusiastically replied, quickly finishing up his lunch. He rang the bell for his servants and rolled the table out into the drawing room for them to take.

Luc was the one to heed the call, having pulled the shortest straw from the stack. The door creaked open and the trembling man poked his head in. “You r-rang, Monsieur?” Luc squeaked, his eyes darting around to check the room for danger. Raoul pointed to the lunch table. “Oh! Oui, oui, Monsieur. Let me take that for you,” he blurted, coming quickly into the room. He glanced around suspiciously and grabbed hold of the table, dragging it out behind him.

“Luc,” Raoul said, causing the chef to stop dead in his tracks and make eye contact. “I need to speak to both you and Rémy as soon as you are finished, please.” He did not fail to notice that Luc’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Still, Luc nodded reluctantly and then left.

It took a few minutes longer than Raoul would have liked, but eventually Luc and Rémy showed their fearful faces through the door into the suite. “Oui, Monsieur?” they chirped in unison.

Raoul beckoned them in with a flick of his finger and they reluctantly obeyed. “I need to talk to you two about Erik,” he indicated, fingering through some paper documents.

“Is it bad, Monsieur?” Rémy squeaked.

Raoul shook his head. “Not at all. I want the both of you to try to make friends with him. Getting to know him a little more will help you to quell your fears concerning him. If you understood where he came from, then you would be far less harsh in your judgments of him.” Luc and Rémy looked at each other nervously and then back to Raoul. “Come,” Raoul beckoned. “You are both going to come say hello to him right now. Close the door behind you, please.”

“Right now?!” they both cried, alarmed.

Raoul gave them the look. “Yes, right at this very moment,” he replied in no uncertain terms, effectively laying down the law. They both tiptoed all the way inside and closed the door behind them as quietly as they could. Luc appeared to be trembling, whereas Rémy could be heard speaking the Lord’s Prayer below his breath. Their employer led them over to the door into the study and pushed it open. “Erik, come here. I want you to meet my staff face to face.”

Luc and Rémy both spotted the Phantom at the desk. He appeared to be working on some kind of written document with a glass pen just before he glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of them. They shrank back. “They don’t appear to be interested in meeting me,” Erik noted dismissively, more or less put off by their behavior. He turned back to his work.

Raoul pushed them inside, slightly frustrated. Luc immediately hid behind the tubbier Rémy, who froze in place. “Well, they’re going to get over that right now. Rémy, you first. Introduce yourself and shake Erik’s hand,” the vicomte instructed, gesturing him forward.

Erik glanced back again, his demeanor one of casual interest, and followed Rémy’s every move as the large man hesitantly approached. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I am called Rémy Millard-Paquet,” he said, extending a shaky hand. He watched Erik cautiously all the while, ready to bolt if the masked man made any move to attack. When Erik stood up and Rémy had the opportunity to size him up, he visibly relaxed. _He is not so very grand. I could squash him like a bug,_ the butler thought, reassuring himself all was well. Indeed, Rémy was two or three inches taller than Erik and more than twice his girth. Erik extended his own hand and shook Rémy’s firmly, which made the manservant feel immediately emboldened. “Monsieur Erik Destler, oui?” he inquired, receiving a nod. “I’ve heard you are a musical genius with a voice of exceptional beauty.”

Erik nodded his head. “If you stick around after this voyage, you will most likely encounter a performance. It seems your vicomte wants me for a new opera house that will be opening within the next year or two,” he replied casually, letting his unreadable eyes fall upon Raoul.

The vicomte nodded and glanced behind Rémy. “Luc, you’re up next,” he said, beckoning the thin man forward by waving a hand in Erik’s direction. Rémy stepped aside.

After observing Rémy’s interaction with Erik, Luc had begun to feel more confident about the whole encounter. He offered his hand. “Luc Boucher,” he greeted. “I am the chef in Monsieur le Vicomte’s household and I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Destler.”

“Indeed, Chef, your culinary skills have not disappointed me thus far,” Erik affirmed. He almost thought he saw the rail-thin Frenchman blush in response to the compliment.

“Merci, I attended cooking school in Provence in my twenties,” Luc explained.

Raoul clapped his hands together, giving everyone aside from himself a little start. “Good! Now that you gentlemen all know each other, I expect you two, Luc and Rémy, to be at Monsieur Destler’s every beck and call just like you would mine. Understand?” he said.

Erik’s eyes popped open at the unexpected command. Both servants nodded and turned back to the masked man. “I see we have interrupted you, Monsieur. Is there anything Rémy or I can get for you while you work in the study? Coffee or tea, perhaps?” he graciously suggested.

Erik shook his head. “Not now, thanks,” he said, turning back to the desk covered in parchment.

“Alright, gentlemen, you are dismissed. Thank you for your cooperation,” Raoul concluded. He tapped Erik lightly on the shoulder and pointed to the golden tassel under the bell on the wall. “Pull that and it rings a bell in the servants’ quarters if you need anything. I need to meet with the ship’s captain briefly, but I will be back soon enough for fencing practice.”

The composer watched Raoul walk out. He was not sure how he felt about being waited on hand and foot, as he had always held a certain disdain for the very aristocratic types who commonly made use of such services. Rather than letting himself overthink the topic, he shook the thought out of his head and allowed his mind to fall completely back into his work. His inspiration from the cloud dream had expanded into a plot line with a small cast of characters and a score for a full-length opera and he wanted to get his ideas down on paper before he could forget them.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Fencing did not go quite as Raoul had planned. The masked man’s prediction had been correct in that he got bored of the game, its ‘uncomely’ attire, and its ‘imbecilic’ rules rather quickly. While Raoul had initially wanted to swat Erik again for complaining so much, he had a mind to change the game instead. He put their foils away in the game chest and retrieved two thin rackets and a conical item made of mesh and rubber. “What is that?” Erik inquired, glancing at it.

“A Badminton set,” Raoul explained, tossing Erik one of the rackets. The musician caught it with ease and looked it over. Raoul held up the conical item. “This piece is called a birdie.”

“That item in no way resembles a bird,” Erik protested.

Raoul rolled his eyes back with a sigh and continued as if nothing had been said. “The object of the game is to keep the birdie off the ground.” He tossed the birdie up into the air and used his racket to hit it up again when it fell back down. “I hit the birdie over to you and you hit it back without letting it touch the ground. Every time you drop the birdie, you lose a point. The rule I usually adhere to is if you drop it five times, you lose the game. If you hit it up onto the roof, you also lose plus you have to climb up and get it. You ready?” he inquired, dribbling the birdie.

Erik pushed his feet apart, getting into a balanced stance with his racket at the ready. “Yes.”

Raoul lightly swatted the birdie over to Erik in a graceful arc. The man in the mask copied Raoul by holding his racket underhanded. He hit the birdie a little bit too hard, causing it to fly up over Raoul’s head. The vicomte, however, had enough experience to cope with this situation. He switched to an overhanded grip and leaned back, hitting the birdie up into a perfect arc again. “This game is almost more cooperative than competitive,” Raoul explained as his masked companion hit the birdie back to him more softly than before. Erik was a fast learner, that much was clear. “Like fencing, it requires some footwork, such as when the birdie flies toward you at a bad angle or distance. You can correct its trajectory with the proper motions.”

Erik turned out to be mildly amused by the Badminton game. The two of them played for a good thirty minutes before Luc poked his head out into the courtyard and spoke. “Monsieur de Chagny, there is an American gentleman here to see you,” he informed Raoul. The unexpected interruption caused the vicomte to jolt and trip backwards, hitting the birdie at a particularly bad angle. The piece bounced up and onto the edge of the roof of the nobleman’s suite.

“I win!” Erik burst into laughter and pointed tauntingly at Raoul. He found it even funnier that Raoul had fallen on his rear end during the fumble. “You’re a graceful one, Vicomte.”

Luc looked worried, but Raoul did not care to chastise him. He only gave Erik a brief glare. The nobleman got up and dusted himself off before heading back into the suite. “Stay here,” he told Erik as he disappeared inside. The aristocrat passed through the salon and the bedroom.

When Raoul got to the drawing room, Richard Billington was seated on the couch. The older businessman looked Raoul up and down. “Fencing with a Badminton racket, are you, Vicomte? That’s rather unorthodox. I’d gotten a sense you had some innovative spirit in you,” he laughed, noting the odd combination of Raoul’s fencing attire and Badminton equipment.

Raoul flushed, realizing that he had accidentally brought the racket with him. He put it down on the coffee table and took a seat on the armchair across from the couch. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Billington. I was practicing my fencing with the foil in the usual way, but I decided to switch over to Badminton and I completely forgot to change,” he explained shortly.

Billington continued to chuckle and reached over for a hearty handshake, which Raoul received warmly. “Well, I apologize for interrupting your exercise. I have only come by for two reasons. The first is to say thank you for the affair earlier. It was most delightful to meet a man of French nobility. The second reason is my colleagues and I were talking. We’ve decided that we would like to have a wine tasting at the Chagny estate before we purchase the product. Would it be too much trouble if we were to inquire of you to bring us home with you to Chagny? We are all most willing to change our travel plans if only to have a tasting of your many famous wines.”

Raoul’s eyes widened in panic. As he was traveling with Erik, the gentleman’s request might pose a problem. He cleared his throat. “In fact, I would be delighted to extend an invitation to you all to visit my family’s estate in Chagny. However, I’m afraid I would have to meet you there separately. Due to prior obligations, I would not be able to travel with you the whole way.”

Billington raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?” he asked, seemingly disappointed.

Raoul inwardly cursed. How to explain? He had to resort to thinking up a little white lie, which he hated to do. Normally, he prided himself on honesty. “I will be having to make several business stops on the way there. My travel plans simply won’t allow for company. But I can send you on ahead to meet my brother with a letter of introduction if you would like.”

“I must admit that this is rather disheartening news, Monsieur le Vicomte. We had hoped you could give us a personal tour of the wineries yourself,” Billington admitted.

“Well, I will if you’re willing to wait. In fact, you can attend our Christmas and New Year’s galas. Oh, there will be more wines and hors-d’oeuvres than you can imagine. I’ll bet your colleagues would love it,” Raoul merrily suggested, pleased that his brain was working properly. He had successfully avoided discussing anything having to do with Erik Destler.

Billington smiled widely. “What a delightful idea, Vicomte. My colleagues and I would be most honored to attend,” he replied, reaching over the coffee table for another handshake.

Raoul firmly received it. “If you’ll wait for me a day or two, I can give you a tour of the wineries when I get there. Oh! But I must warn you about the parties. The Christmas gala is a costume party by tradition, though costumes aren’t required. The New Year’s gala, on the other hand, will be a masquerade. I’m sure my relatives will be pleased to take you shopping if you just ask.”

“Indeed, we will need appropriate attire. I’m afraid business suits are the only thing I’ve brought with me,” Billington replied, looking his outfit over. It was completely professional, no glamor.

Raoul nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Oh, one more thing. I know you had a lunch engagement earlier, Vicomte. Have you made any dinner plans yet?” Billington asked hopefully. “If not, I would love for you to join us tonight.”

Raoul scratched his chin and thought about Erik. He was not sure how the masked man would feel about his absence. “Let me check with a friend and I’ll send word within the hour.”

Billington nodded. “Tell your friend that he or she is more than welcome to join. We have a private reservation for seven o’clock sharp in the upper dining hall,” he stated, rising to his feet. “As far as I’m concerned, any friend of the Vicomte de Chagny is also a friend of mine.”

Raoul accompanied him to the door and showed him out. “Thank you for dropping by, Mr. Billington. I do hope to see you again soon. If not tonight, then tomorrow at noon.” He waved goodbye and closed the door as the other gentleman tipped his hat and retreated. The vicomte grabbed his Badminton racket and headed back to the courtyard to seek out Erik.

The masked man was standing in the middle of the courtyard, dribbling the birdie with his racket when Raoul returned. He did not so much as a glance at the vicomte. “You can go to dinner with him, I don’t care. After decades in the dark, I’ve learned how to entertain myself quite well,” he said with a forthcoming grin, making it clear that he had been eavesdropping.

Raoul chuckled. “You went and got the birdie yourself?”

Erik shook his head. “The wind decided to do you a favor today. I must admit I was somewhat disappointed, as I had planned to mock you terribly while you climbed to the roof to retrieve it.” He stopped playing with the birdie and put it away in the game chest. “I’m done for today. I’d like to get back to work. Now, it is you who must learn to entertain yourself, Vicomte.”

Raoul blinked, disappointed. “Can I read some of your work?” he inquired as Erik passed by him. Obviously, it would not do now to try and read Erik’s work without his permission.

Erik stopped in his tracks and glanced back at Raoul. “You can read my completed work. It was my works in progress that I was not so enthused about you leafing through,” he clarified, beckoning the vicomte inside and into the bedroom. He went through one of the folders himself and pulled out two clipped stacks of paper, handing them to Raoul. “That one is the first opera I completed after the fire at the Opera Populaire. It has not been performed. I must warn you that you may find it disturbing. I was not in the best state of mind at the time. The other stack is the completed manuscript of a novel I wrote just recently,” he explained. “As of yet, untitled.”

“Thank you,” Raoul replied, gratefully taking the reading material in hand.

Erik nodded and went into the lavatory to change out of Raoul’s fencing gear. He came out a few minutes later in his normal dress clothes and wordlessly headed into the study.

Raoul sent word to Billington that he would be in attendance to the dinner before he retired to his bedroom for the rest of the afternoon to read Erik’s work. He sat in his cozy armchair in front the fireplace and began to read the opera entitled _Brigida e Fiorenzo_ first, Erik’s warnings of disconcertion having made him curious. The story was about love spurned and exhibited many dark, ominous, and even gruesome themes, but it was astonishingly well written. Raoul could not visualize the music in his mind too well, but the poetic lyrics captured his interest. He just barely managed to finish the score before dinner and found himself wishing to see it performed.

Just before heading off to meet with his American friends, Raoul knocked on the ajar door to the study to get Erik’s attention. “Is this the only copy of _Brigida e Fiorenzo_?” he inquired.

“Yes. Lose it and you die,” Erik warned, glancing back at him sternly.

Raoul balked, clearly offended. “I’d never do anything of the sort,” he shot back, placing his hands on his hips in indignation, “but I would like to have several copies made.”

“If you want to produce it, then produce it,” Erik replied. “We can have it printed in France.”

Raoul’s shoulders drooped in disappointment, as he wanted to share it with the business fellows he had met, but it seemed that would have to wait. He took the opera, put it away in his bedroom, and prepared for the evening’s festivities in formal attire with Remy’s assistance. Then he left.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

By the time Raoul got back, it was well past ten o’clock. Again, Richard Billington had proved a difficult man to escape conversation with and the evening had dragged on much longer than the vicomte had anticipated. He was slightly worried when he got back that Erik would be upset with him, but that was not the case. He found the human marvel asleep at the desk in the study, lying atop multiple disorganized pages of parchment. It made Raoul wonder if Erik had a habit of falling asleep in the middle of his work. Without a word, he pushed Erik back into the chair, scooted it back from the desk, scooped the man up bridal-style, and carried him to the bedroom. Rémy was busy stoking the fire to life. When the butler heard footsteps, he glanced up at them with worry on his face. “Is Monsieur Destler alright?” he inquired, rising to his feet.

Raoul carefully lowered the unconscious body down onto the foot of the large king-sized bed. “Yes, Rémy. Do me a favor, if you will. Don’t let Erik fall asleep in the study. He’s a lot heavier than he looks,” he implored, taking off his formal coat and hanging it up in the closet.

Rémy blinked and nodded, threading his fingers together. “Oui, Monsieur. I shall keep an eye on him tomorrow. Shall I go prepare the spare bedroom for Monsieur Destler’s use tonight?”

Raoul shook his head. “Let me worry about that.”

Rémy raised a brow, but he dropped the topic when another thought came up. “Oh! Your bath is almost ready, Vicomte. Do you prefer rose, lavender, clove, or peppermint tonight?”

“My head is pounding a bit at the moment. I’ll go with peppermint,” Raoul replied, kicking off his shoes. He plopped down on the divan to stretch his back, feeling drained.

“Oui, Monsieur,” Rémy replied, proceeding to the bathroom to finish setting up for the bath.

When the water was ready, Raoul dismissed Rémy for the rest of the evening and waited for him to leave before he walked back over to Erik and proceeded to prepare the masked slumberer for bed as best he could. He removed the musician’s shoes and belt and pulled back the blankets, depositing the tired genius as close to the middle of the mattress as possible. He tucked him in well and headed to the bathroom, disrobing and climbing into the steaming water. Raoul breathed a sigh of relief as his muscles relaxed from the long day and he quickly went about lathering himself up with the washcloth. Because he was so tired, he did not linger in the bathwater for too long once he had finished the necessary task of washing himself. He pulled the plug and dried off quickly before putting on the drawers and nightshirt that had been left out for him.

Feeling pretty good, the young nobleman returned to the bedroom and thought he heard a bare whimper coming from the bed. He glanced over and noticed Erik had flipped over onto his belly. With the unmasked side of his face buried in the pillows, his whole body was twitching and quivering in his sleep. Suddenly, the disturbed genius cried out and squeezed one of the pillows with a vice-like grip until his knuckles went white. Raoul rushed over and climbed into bed. Lying on his right side beneath the covers, the vicomte scooted closer and placed the palm of his hand over Erik’s lower back and started stroking it from side to side. “Hush, Erik. It’s time to stop with the night terrors,” he uttered, gently yanking the hem of his shirt out from his trousers. He slid his hand under the fabric onto the musician’s bare skin and continued the soothing endeavor. “Leave the past behind for now. Dream about summer and sunlight.”

Without the barest hint of consciousness, Erik grunted once and gradually his body went still. Once his muscles relaxed and he released his grip on the pillow, Raoul reached back to the nightstand and grabbed hold of the music box he had brought, winding it up. He put it back down and let the tinkling music play as he blew out the last candle in the room. The embers in the fireplace still glowed as the nobleman pulled the covers over their shoulders. He moved closer to Erik and stretched the masked man’s right arm across his own chest. Then Raoul slid his right arm under Erik’s head and pulled him into a cradling embrace not unlike the ones he used with Christine when they were together. It did not take the vicomte long to fall asleep.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Erik was the first to rise in the morning, feeling fully energetic and alert. He crawled out of bed and changed into fresh clothes, disregarding the mystery of how he had actually gotten to bed to begin with. The first place he headed was the courtyard. It was slightly chilly, but also bright and sunny without a cloud in the sky. He climbed up onto the roof and pulled his warm cloak tightly around himself, glancing over the rail to see the enormous bow of the ship heading just to the right of the rising sun. He could see sailors scurrying around the decks below and a few early risers like himself wandering around and conversing. It made him want to paint the scenery. Unfortunately, all of his art supplies were packed away in the bowels of the ship where they would remain for the duration of the voyage. Instead, he elected to retrieve parchment and ink from the study and go about writing some poetic prose describing what he saw.

The musician lost track of time and, before he knew it, the vicomte was calling his name in a frantic and cross-sounding tone of voice. “Erik? Erik! Where are you?” Raoul shouted, peeking his head out into the courtyard. It seemed to him as if the masked man had vanished overnight, as Raoul had already checked every room in the suite with no success at finding him.

Erik scrambled to the edge of the roof. “What?” he called back, peering down into the courtyard.

“There you are!” Raoul exclaimed, slapping his forehead as he stepped out onto the grass. “I thought you had run off. What are you even doing up there? Breakfast is ready.” It was the magical B-word that captured Erik’s interest. He tucked his papers away into his jacket and hopped down onto the grass, fumbling a slight bit as he landed. He jumped up to his feet as Raoul held the door open for him. “We’re eating in the drawing room this morning. What were you doing on the roof?” he inquired as Erik disappeared into the study to unload his papers.

Erik came back out without his cloak or jacket and glanced at the vicomte, proceeding in the direction of the drawing room. He shrugged innocently. “Looking at stuff.”

Raoul was dissatisfied with the answer, but he decided to drop the subject. He followed Erik, sitting down at the table and placing a napkin over his lap as per his usual dining ritual. “Sleep well?” he inquired, taking a knife and fork to the large strawberry crepe on his plate.

As Erik had already stuffed his face to capacity, all he could do was nod lightly. He chewed, swallowed, and scratched his head before adding, “I don’t remember going to bed though.”

“You didn’t. When I found you, you were slumped over the desk in the study drooling all over your papers. It didn’t look very comfortable,” Raoul remarked, trying to suppress a grin.

Erik flushed, embarrassed to have been caught in that state again. The only other individual who had ever seen him like that had been Madame Giry. She had found it amusing as well and the stoic woman almost never laughed. “Right,” Erik replied, stabbing his fork into another small sausage. He elected to focus his attention on his plate instead of the vicomte.

Raoul chuckled. “Well, I have a lunch engagement today. I’ll be leaving around 11:30. I can only hope that I won’t be any later than 1:30 getting back in the afternoon, but I make no guarantees.” He paused as a thought came up. “Do you like wine, Erik?” he inquired.

Erik blinked at the unanticipated inquiry. “I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t ever tried it. I drink only water usually, sometimes tea. What made you think to ask such a question?”

Raoul shrugged. “I was thinking of the upcoming New Year’s masquerade. There’ll be hundreds of different wines to taste. Wine culture is like a hobby. It’s more fun when it’s social.”

“And you seem so quick to assume that, because it’s a masquerade, yours truly will naturally be in attendance,” Erik replied in a snarky tone before wolfing down his own strawberry crepe.

Raoul frowned. “Well, why not? It’ll be fun.”

Erik rolled his eyes as he finished eating the crepe. After swallowing, he quipped, “What would I want to engage with a bunch of hoity-toity drunks dressed up in ridiculous costumes for?”

Raoul sighed. “Because there will be dancing, food, and merrymaking as well. Also, fireworks and musical entertainment. Please, come. I’ll let you dance with Christine all night if you want.”

Erik snapped his gaze away from Raoul. “Let Christine dance with whomever she wants. I might come briefly to watch the fireworks,” he uttered, unwilling to let Raoul throw him any bones.

Raoul smiled lightly. “They will be spectacular,” he promised. “But you should also stay long enough to taste the wine if you’ve never tried it, my friend. It is the very best of the best. Wine can be an acquired taste, I admit. But once you’ve acquired it, there’s no going back.” He leaned back in his chair and drank some of the honeyed rose tea which Luc had prepared.

“Is that not how people become drunks?” Erik retorted, raising a curt brow.

Raoul shook his head. “I don’t think you understand what a drunk is, Erik. Wine is meant to be a social beverage. Drunks not only drink too much, they drink in inappropriate situations—like early in the morning. Wine is mostly for evenings and afternoons enjoyed with others. As you can probably tell, I have a taste for fine wines. That alone does not make me a drunk.”

Erik shrugged like he did not really care. “Fair enough,” he replied, finishing up his breakfast by stuffing his face, chewing, and swallowing five times in rapid succession without hardly a breathing break in between rounds. He wiped his mouth and rose to his feet, straightening out his shirt and trousers as Rémy entered with cleaning supplies. The butler nodded at them and they both returned the gesture before the large man disappeared into the master bedroom.

Raoul glanced toward Erik. “Where are you going?”

“To the study. I was in the middle of something earlier. Breakfast interrupted me,” the masked man replied, disappearing into said study faster than Raoul could even think to respond.

Raoul went after him. “Ahem,” he said, sticking his head through the door. “Would it be too much to ask if I requested some boxing in the courtyard in an hour? I don’t know if you like to punch things or not, but I thought you might enjoy it more than fencing.”

Erik blinked in surprise and glanced back at Raoul over his shoulder, a sliver of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “When you say ‘things’ what you really mean is ‘you,’ right?”

Raoul hesitated, slightly worried he was going to end up regretting the invitation. “Well, yes.”

“Count me in.”

The vicomte regarded Erik with a very unreadable and unamused expression. Then he threw up a hand. “Great. I’ll see you in the courtyard at ten. You do realize I’ll be punching back, right?”

Erik snorted in amusement, but did not respond. Raoul stared at the back of the insolent man’s head, his eyes turning to slits, before he shook his head. Without another word, Raoul returned to the master bedroom and sprawled himself out on the divan to read Erik’s untitled novel. He wondered why it was untitled, thinking to inquire about it later. It turned out to be a long winding tale about a cast of forlorn characters trying to find their way back to the stage in a world full of magic, oracles, and demons. Though he could not hope to get through to the end over the course of an hour, he got the sense that the story was about deep loss and isolation. While the plot itself gave Raoul deep feelings of sorrow and forlornness, he enjoyed the poetic prose through which the story was told. When ten o’clock arrived, he put down the manuscript and went to find Erik.

Just as Raoul entered the drawing room, Erik likewise emerged from the study. He gave the vicomte a brief glance and then headed straight to the courtyard, Raoul in pursuit. “So I take it this is another one of the many sports and games that members of the ‘leisure’ class such as yourself like to partake in?” he remarked, waiting for Raoul’s instructions.

“Indeed. If it weren’t so chilly, I’d say the normal custom would be for us to take off our tops. But, in all honesty, I don’t think I could tolerate that kind of wind exposure right now,” spoke the vicomte as he went to the game chest and pulled out a pair of thick boxing gloves.

Erik had never seen them before in his life and he blinked in confusion as Raoul tossed him a pair and then took one out for himself, putting them on his hands. Erik glanced at him, then down at his own gloves, and promptly copied the action. “So these are to avoid injuries?”

Raoul nodded. “Yes. And I’m skipping the mouth guards because we’re not going to be hitting each other in the face,” he replied, beating his gloves together. “Anyway, we’re not doing a real round. This is just practice. The rules are thus: no hugging or wrestling, no hits to the groin or face, absolutely no kicking or tripping, and if you fall to one knee, you’re considered down for the count. Same if you fall on your backside. Basically, our goal is to out-punch one another and wear the other man down. Got it?” he explained. “It’s about exercise, not hostility.”

“You’re one to talk about falling on your backside,” Erik quipped, grinning. “When do we start?”

Raoul looked at him with a deadpan expression and then raised a brow. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then, we start right no… Whoa!” Raoul exclaimed, gasping as he intuitively jumped back from his rival’s first swing. “I see you’ve decided to waste no time,” he spoke, hopping back and forth to keep on his toes. “Interesting approach. You always have been the instigator.” The nobleman blocked one of Erik’s punches with both boxing gloves held together at the level of his abdomen, but his opponent proceeded to use his other fist to hook him in the shoulder. “Ack!”

Erik’s attack was relentless. Skipping back and forth on his feet, he seemed to be coming from every direction at once. They were at it less than thirty seconds before Erik nailed Raoul in the solar plexus, causing the vicomte to bow over holding his abdomen. Erik brought his gloves together high over his head and brought them down simultaneously right in the middle of the vicomte’s back. Raoul fell flat on his face in the grass. “Maybe you should try being the instigator for once. What do I have to do to make you mad, Vicomte? Tell you the truth? You look like a girl in the face and you have long lovely lady locks. There, how’s that?”

Raoul glared up at Erik from the grass, wiping his face with the back of a glove. Oh, hell no. He gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up. “It would almost seem as if you’ve done this before.”

“Not-a once,” Erik said, shaking his head. “Ha, what a girl. Can’t even beat a total beginner.”

When Raoul rose to his feet, he clapped his gloves together in a combative manner. “Oh, I’ll show you who the girl is, Destler,” he growled. He lunged at Erik, who swiftly sidestepped him and popped him on the upper back. Again, the Vicomte de Chagny tumbled forward. With his feet unable to keep up with his bodily momentum, he fell on his face once again.

“Giiiirrrl.”

Raoul bellowed at him, “Okay, now you’re dead!” He rounded on Erik again, trying to control his temper. The vicomte waited for his rival to come at him before he launched himself into a full-on attack, using his whole body to plow into Erik’s. The masked man did not back down, however, and soon padded fists were flying in either direction. They were at it without so much as a moment of rest for nearly two minutes when Raoul cornered Erik against the wall and jabbed him in the side, causing him to bend his torso and slump slightly. Still, thanks to the presence of the wall, Erik did not fall or even end up on a knee. Raoul aimed to wear him out by continually pounding downward on his shoulders and back such that he could not rise to his feet. Erik was almost trapped when he thrusted his fists into Raoul’s ribcage and sent him stumbling back due to pure muscle exhaustion. The vicomte tried to bound back, but he was too late. Erik had risen to his feet and was on full offensive again. He ended up forcing Raoul to move back one step at a time until they were against the opposite wall of the courtyard. Erik made to pound him in the shoulder with an overhanded blow when Raoul bounced off the wall behind him and slipped under his opponent’s arm just before the blow could hit. When Erik spun around, he was the one who was cornered. Raoul rained down blow after blow upon him until he finally ran out of stamina and fell to one knee. The vicomte excitedly threw up his arms. Jumping up and down, he whooped at his hard-won victory. “I win! Who’s the girl? You the girl. That’s right.”

“Your losses were still far less dignified and you know it,” Erik retorted from his knelt position, panting in exhaustion. Raoul was also covered in a fine sheen of sweat as he panted to catch his breath. Boxing was a far more vigorous exercise than Badminton by far.

Raoul pointed his right glove directly in Erik’s direction. “Before the day is through, you will be on your ass or your face at least twice for payback. Mark my words, Erik,” he warned, getting back in position. “Now, come on. Get up and come at me,” he grunted. Erik stood up and got back in position, holding up his fists. They were at it until nearly 11:30, when Rémy poked his head out into the courtyard. “I’m not a girl, damn it!” was the first thing the butler heard Raoul shout upon his arrival. Raoul tried to hook Erik again, but the infuriating man jumped back.

Rémy’s eyes widened. They both looked utterly exhausted, but he found it encouraging that they were at least using boxing gloves so as not to kill each other during their competition. “Monsieur de Chagny,” Rémy timidly interrupted. “It is almost time for your important lunch engagement. Alors, Vicomte, you must come inside and get cleaned up before you head out.”

Both competitors dropped what they were doing and glanced over at Rémy, having completely lost track of time. “11:30 already?” Raoul inquired, receiving a nod. The vicomte cursed.

“Ha!” Erik boasted. “I haven’t fallen on anything but a knee even once. You lose!”

Raoul snapped his head back to glare at Erik. “I said before the day was _through_. You just wait until I get back,” he vehemently warned, quite addled. He yanked off his gloves and threw them in the game chest, giving Erik one last dirty look before he headed inside. They were both a bit bruised from the semi-friendly competition, but neither seemed to realize it yet.

Erik only laughed and went back inside, proceeding to the study which had become his favorite room. He got back to work, suddenly tempted to eviscerate Raoul in the written word. With his new victim of the most brutal satire selected, he got to work on perhaps the very first comedic piece of his life. This one he would be sure to keep hidden until it was completed. As an added precaution against prying noblemen, the masked musician started writing it in German.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author’s Note** : This is the first mature chapter of this story. The rating has gone up to M for sexual content. Do not proceed if you are offended by sexual content.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

When Raoul got back to the suite at three, he was very much still out for blood and had not cooled down one bit. He found Erik in the study again engrossed in what he was doing, but the touchy vicomte did not hesitate to get right up in his masked face. He grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up until their noses were a half centimeter apart. “You. Me. Courtyard. _Now_.”

Erik shot him a look of innocence. “Care to put that into a sentence? I don’t speak Ruffian.”

“Get up.”

Erik shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a rather bad time. I seem to be sodden in a bog of ultimate inspiration. Your frivolous fun time will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh, no. I promised I’d lay you out before the day was through and I meant it,” Raoul countered.

Erik put down his pen and stood up to face Raoul. “If you couldn’t lay me out in one-and-a-half hours of boxing earlier, what makes you think you can now?” he asked earnestly. “Hm?”

Raoul knitted his brows. “Call it intuition.”

“I am not your jester put here on this earth to entertain you at will, Vicomte,” Erik asserted, taking Raoul by the wrist and pulling the nobleman’s hand off his own clothing. In truth, he was extremely sore from their earlier bout—not that he would ever admit it. No way was he about to pick up a pair of boxing gloves again just yet. “I will do so in my own sweet time.”

“Scared?” Raoul challenged.

Erik chuckled. “You do realize that I am not nearly so juvenile and gullible as you are to be spurred to anger and frivolous competition by petty insults, correct?” he said in return.

“Sounds to me like you’re scared to lose.”

“I cannot control the way your ears choose to interpret things, nor would I ever care to. Now, run along. I have work to do,” the musician ordained, shooing the pesky aristocrat from the study.

Raoul narrowed his eyes at Erik in warning and stared him down. The awkward silence did not seem to bother the clever composer in the least and he grinned in satisfaction. “Fine!” snapped the vicomte. “But to make up for today, you can expect to be laid out at least three times tomorrow!” With that, he stormed off. Raoul headed straight into the bedroom where he plopped down on the divan angrily and went right back to reading Erik’s eerie novel. He found it a little hard to focus at first. He did not like being called a girl—or a pretty boy, for that matter. Erik had not been the first one to ever mock him thusly, nor would he likely be the last. While there was nothing truly lacking in the young vicomte’s masculine abilities, it had gotten to the point that he was thinking about cutting his hair short—even if his loving wife Christine might object.

By dinnertime, Raoul had gotten two-thirds of the way through the manuscript. Despite how expertly it was written, the thematic material left him with a powerful feeling of dejection. He trudged to the study and poked Erik. The musician glanced up at him with a neutral expression. “Have you written any happy stories?” he inquired hopefully, holding up the manuscript.

Erik shook his head. “I write what I know.” The dinner bell suddenly rang and Erik bounded up from his seat, rushed past the vicomte, and entered into the drawing room to greet Luc at the door. The French chef rolled in the table and helped set up the chairs. Luc had selected an Italian theme for the evening’s meal. Pasta was the entrée, complete with marinated steak and greens. Crispy buttered garlic bread came on the side along with extra tomato-based sauce.

Raoul found himself hungrier than usual. Despite the intense exercise from the morning, his business friends had treated him to a comparatively light lunch. Tonight was the first time he found himself actually eating faster than Erik, though no less politely than he had been trained to growing up. Erik, in turn, ended up trying to copy the vicomte’s techniques, as he had not tried spaghetti before. Raoul did not even realize he was being watched until the end of the meal when he looked up from his plate. He narrowed his eyes at Erik. “You trying to unnerve me?” he inquired cautiously, to which he received a smiling nod. “Good job then.” Erik yawned and peered around the room wearily, rubbing his left eye. Raoul did not fail to notice and he rang for his servants. Rémy was the one to appear. The vicomte pointed at Erik. “Run him a bath.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Rémy replied, proceeding to the master bath.

Erik flopped down on the drawing room sofa, drew his forearms behind his head, and peered up at the exquisitely-painted ceiling with half-lidded eyes, ignoring the others’ chatting.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep there,” Raoul warned him. “I refuse to carry you again. Like I told Luc and Rémy, you’re a lot heavier than you look.” Erik glanced over at the vicomte with casual interest and lightly rolled his eyes before stretching out his whole body. “I mean it.”

“Is it a crime to look at a pretty ceiling?” Erik mused, waving a hand in the air. It took about ten minutes until the bath was ready and the masked musician appeared to have dozed off in that timeframe. Raoul stuck his fingers in his glass of water and sprinkled his friend with it. “Hey!” Erik protested, curling his torso up from the sofa and glaring at Raoul. “What the hell?”

“Up,” Raoul said, rising to his feet. He reached over and grabbed a hold of one of Erik’s wrists, yanking him up off the couch. Rémy watched all the while as Raoul ushered Erik into the master bathroom, at which point the masked man seemed to be done protesting and went along quietly.

When Raoul got back to the drawing room, he brought Erik’s manuscript with him. Dropping it on the coffee table, he plopped down on the sofa in the same manner as Erik had. The dinner table was gone and Rémy was busy dusting the fineries. The butler glanced over right as Raoul grabbed the manuscript after getting himself situated. “How has your day been, Monsieur?”

“Not bad, actually. Quite honestly, I complain more than I should,” the vicomte readily admitted, opening the clipped parchments to the page where he had previously left off.

Rémy nodded. “It seems to me as if you and Monsieur Destler are becoming friends. Would you say that sounds correct, Monsieur le Vicomte?” the butler optimistically suggested.

“I certainly hope so. It would be great if we could avoid trying to kill each other ever again for the sake of my beloved wife,” Raoul acknowledged, kicking off his shoes.

“I am impressed,” Rémy expressed. “Just a few days ago, he wanted to kill you. How ever did you manage to pacify him? Luc and I have been unable to come up with a plausible theory.”

Raoul sighed and placed the open manuscript down on his chest momentarily. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he joked, flashing a grin. “No, but, in all seriousness—it is a secret,” he concluded, getting back to his reading. The vicomte had discovered a major secret weapon in acts of compassion. It should have occurred to him before, he thought in retrospect. The young nobleman remembered how Christine had so strategically used compassion two years earlier to soothe the savage beast. One act of love, a kiss, was enough to save both their lives. Erik had been so starved of empathy his whole life that one minute act of kindness was as potent a drug on him as any narcotic there had ever been. Hence, Raoul figured it could be used as a tool in managing the masked man’s dysfunctional behavior. Neither Luc nor Rémy would understand, as they knew very little about Erik. Raoul worried that they might dismiss his co-sleeping practice as weird at best or perverted at worst. Like Erik, he feared judgment to a degree. For Raoul, it was even worse because of the potential ramifications harmful gossip could have for his social standing and that of his family. Erik had started at zero and had little to lose by comparison.

Rémy hesitated, but then smiled. “Well, Monsieur, I wish I knew your secret. Maybe it would work on my mother-in-law,” he mused before laughing in a jolly manner, causing his belly to bounce. “She’s been wanting to kill me since I set eyes on Sylvie thirty years ago.”

Raoul echoed his amusement. “No, I don’t think it would. Erik is a very unique case, I must say.” A still-smiling Rémy nodded as the vicomte returned his attention to his reading.

When Erik retired from the bath some thirty minutes later, he came out wearing an off-white nightshirt that went down past his hips and a pair of loose drawers to sleep in. Feeling chilled, the musical prodigy went to get his dark cloak to wrap around his shoulders. Not speaking a word, he passed by Rémy and Raoul in the drawing room as he returned to the study. It was still too early for bed and the hot bath had stimulated him to wakefulness, though it would not last.

Rémy took notice and returned to the master bathroom to draw a bath for Raoul next. When it was ready, the vicomte dismissed his butler for the night and went into the study to round up Erik. He knocked on the wall next to the door to get the masked man’s attention. “If you’re cold, why not come to the fireplace in the bedroom? Rémy got it going just before he left,” he advised, peering at his new friend earnestly. “Seriously, don’t fall asleep in here again.”

Erik wordlessly conceded, getting up with his papers to head back into the bedroom. He plopped down on the rug in front of the fire and threw in another log before he went back to what he was doing before—writing. Feeling warm and toasty, he gradually let the cloak slip off his shoulders and onto the floor. Meanwhile, Raoul had disappeared into the master bath to clean himself up.

The vicomte took his time and lingered in the bath for almost an hour. When he got out, he noticed Erik slumping where he sat on the rug. The masked marvel had set his writing materials aside and scooted closer to the fire, enjoying its warmth. That is where he remained, barefoot and hugging his knees to his chest with his eyes lightly closed as the fire gently crackled. It was just past ten o’clock when Raoul pulled him to his feet and ushered him into bed. Erik knew that he would not have been able to swallow his pride and get into the other man’s bed on his own volition. Hence, he was secretly thankful for Raoul’s pushiness. He felt more than saw Raoul get in bed after him and pull the covers over their shoulders. After feeling some more movement, the tinkling melody of _Masquerade_ started to play which made Erik pass out almost instantly.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

After three days of sunlight exposure, high-quality food, hot herbal baths, social interaction, and peaceful rest, Erik felt better than he had ever felt before in his life. He did not even think about Christine anymore, nor about what he had lost by not being with her. It did not seem to matter. He had what he needed to feel like a normal person for the first time in his life. Warming up to Raoul, he boxed with him again in the afternoon yet refrained from mocking him.

Each day after that, they practiced some sport either early or late in the day. These games ranged from boxing, to wrestling, to Badminton, to arm wrestling, to certain ball games that could fit into the 24-by-24-foot courtyard space. By the time three weeks had passed, however, Erik found himself longing for music more and more. Raoul had been forced to procure various items to sate the genius’s creative drives from paints, canvases, and brushes to charcoal, mirrors, and machine parts. The weather had gotten warmer as the ship moved south with the Atlantic Ocean currents on its way back to France. It was starting to feel like a tropical cruise to the point Erik and Raoul spent parts of the day sunbathing on the roof of the suite. “You’re starting to tan,” Raoul pointed out, glancing over at Erik who was sprawled out on a large towel right next to him.

Erik removed the wide-brimmed black felt hat from over his eyes and looked down at his hands. Indeed, the backs of his hands had darkened from their normal ghostly pallor. “Is that bad?” he inquired worriedly, flipping his hands over several times as he examined them. He was surprised that he had not noticed the change earlier and it freaked him out a little bit.

Raoul laughed. “No, I think it’s considered healthy. Just don’t overdo it.”

Erik nodded and stood up, putting the black hat back on his head. He moved back over to the canvas he had been working on. As it was a spectacularly beautiful day without a cloud in the sky, he had elected to paint the ship and its scenery. Raoul had come up to watch because he had always enjoyed watching artists paint on the streets of Paris. He discovered that Erik was able to work remarkably fast, finishing the entire underpainting in a few hours. The masked man had indicated to Raoul that he intended to finish the rest of the painting the following day at sunrise when he would add all the shadows and highlights as quickly as he could. The canvas was 1-1/2 by 2 feet in dimension, laid horizontally on the borrowed stand Erik had tied to the top of the chimney. The multi-talented musician started putting his supplies away. The painting, too, he was very careful with. He had Raoul climb down from the roof first and then handed it to him. They brought it inside overnight to protect it from the elements, should there be any.

When it was nearly dinnertime, Raoul brought Erik into the drawing room to show him something. He handed him a large case, which turned out to house a miniature harp. “I know what you really want is an organ, but I had hoped this could hold you over until we get to Chagny. I borrowed it from a friend in the orchestra. He had an extra, but he still says he’ll kill me if anything happens to it,” Raoul explained, handing it over. “Can you play harp?”

“I can play anything. Watch,” Erik indicated, sitting on the sofa and taking the harp in hand. It took him a second to get it into position, but then he began to play _Music of the Night_ and fell into a trance of his own making. For a time, there was nothing but the music.

Raoul listened in silence until he was done and clapped lightly. “What was that?”

Erik raised a brow. “A song I wrote over two years ago. I admit this is a limited instrument, but it can play a simple version of just about anything. _Music of the Night_ was written for an orchestra, but has never been performed by one. It pairs very well with a piano though.”

“It sounds vaguely familiar.”

Erik nodded and repositioned his fingers on the strings. “I wrote it for Christine. You might have heard her humming it.” Letting a momentary silence reign, he started to play a soft winding Celtic piece that seemed to have arisen straight out of fairytale books of old. The look on the musician’s face was one of total rapture as he played the song. He swayed his head from side to side in time to the music. When the song came to an end, he let the sound of the notes dissipate completely before he opened his eyes. “That one, I did not write. I just really like it.”

“It is beautiful. I can picture hearing it atop a summer hill surrounded by immaculate pristine greenery,” Raoul mused. Erik nodded in agreement. “Did the other one have lyrics?”

Erik glanced over at him. “Huh?”

“ _Music of the Night_ ,” Raoul clarified. “Does it have lyrics or is it purely instrumental?”

“It has lyrics, yes,” Erik confirmed, performing some light tuning of the end strings. Raoul looked at him expectantly and the artist raised his left brow in return. “What?”

Raoul rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You know what I want—sing it.”

Erik shook his head. “I would need a better instrument to do it proper justice and a more acoustic interior space than this. This suite is awful for music in general,” he assessed. “No offense.”

“Well, why not sneak into the chapel then?” Raoul asked as if it was obvious.

Erik narrowed his eyes at the vicomte. “I already told you. I’m not going into the damn chapel.”

“What do you have against the chapel?”

Erik growled lightly. “Nothing. I just don’t want to go in there.”

“Does going to new places make you nervous?” Raoul inquired suspiciously.

“No!” Erik snapped, then paused. “Well, it depends.”

“On what?”

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” Erik snapped, slightly irritated. “If you want to hear my music properly performed, you’ll have to wait until we’re off the ship. And that’s final.”

Raoul sighed in frustration. “Alright, fine,” he conceded. Erik waited for the nobleman to stop bellyaching before he began to play a song quite familiar to the vicomte. “ _Think of Me_?” Raoul acknowledged, receiving a light nod from the absorbed harpist. “You’re making me nostalgic now. I miss the Opera Populaire,” he uttered, lying against the back rest of the sofa. Erik did not respond as he continued to play. Raoul listened in silence for the rest of the song. When Erik was done, Raoul spoke up again, “You remember the old managers Firmin and André, right?”

Erik sneered at the unwelcome question. “What would I want to remember those pitiful fools for?” he uttered, gently putting the elegantly-carved harp down on the coffee table.

“They said it was my fault.”

Erik raised a brow and glanced at Raoul. “What was?”

“The chandelier disaster,” Raoul replied, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees. He buried his face in his palms. “It was my asinine plan to trap you that ruined them.”

Erik shook his head. “No, you were just a mindless sheep like the rest. It was their fault, André and Firmin. They were the ones in charge and they were the ones who refused to obey my orders. The opera house had become world famous under my guidance. Monsieur Lefèvre knew as much. That’s why he did as I instructed. But when those two came along, they did not understand my contributions and they refused to let me contribute further. Instead, they wanted to make all the artistic judgments for themselves when neither had any background in the arts at all. Netta warned them, but they didn’t listen. They created their own ruin. Not that your plan wasn’t stupid too. It was. You do realize that I was able to eavesdrop on every minute detail of it, right?”

Raoul nodded. “Yes, I realize how stupid it was in retrospect.”

Erik shrugged. “I’ve also done things I later realized to be stupid. I think everyone has that experience unless they’re too foolish by nature to learn from their mistakes.”

“Like what?” Raoul asked.

“Hm?”

“What have you done that you realized was stupid in retrospect?” Raoul inquired.

The composer’s eyes widened. “Oh, well…” He paused to think for a moment, chewing his lower lip lightly. Then he turned and glanced at Raoul. “Killing Piangi,” he indicated.

Raoul hesitated a moment, raising a brow at the admission. Erik’s past homicides were a subject he had wanted to tackle, but he was not expecting Erik to be the one to bring them up, nor was Raoul expecting the topic to come up so soon. “You’re sorry you did it?”

Erik nodded, then shook his head briskly. “All I can say is that it made sense at the time. I don’t know what that means anymore. The truth is that he wasn’t truly a threat to me.”

“What about Buquet?”

Erik met eyes with Raoul and knitted his brows in vexation. “I regret the way I killed him, not the act itself. He was a threat to me, had been hunting for me. I was so enraged at the managers and opera staff at the time that I wanted to teach them all a lesson they would never forget. It was the wrong way to go about it. I should have thought about Christine and the effect it would have on her. I can’t imagine how much the hanging traumatized her,” he expressed regretfully.

The vicomte reached a hand over and placed it on Erik’s shoulder unexpectedly, causing the masked man to jolt slightly in surprise. “Sorry,” Raoul said. “Do me a favor?”

“What?” Erik asked, eyeing him.

“If you feel threatened by someone in the future, come to me first before you do anything rash. Even if it’s just a sneaking suspicion. If you even get upset with someone, come to me. I would only condone thoughtless violence from you if you found yourself suddenly attacked and forced to act in self-defense. Then, you would have my blessing to do whatever you must to survive in the moment. Even if that happens, though, come to me immediately afterwards. Alright?”

Erik hesitated to think a moment before nodding. His throat bobbed and he looked away. “Is… that what ‘normal’ people do?” he inquired, making quotations with his fingers.

Raoul laughed and leaned back again. “Yes, that’s what ‘normal’ people do. Average, everyday folk rely on friends and family to help them out of troubling situations that they can’t manage themselves,” he explained shortly. “It’s a well-known fact that human beings do not cope well in isolation. We are social creatures by design. You may have been born to a bad situation, but I implore you to do whatever possible in the future to avoid falling back into old habits.”

Erik narrowed his eyes at the nobleman in suspicion. “But how do I know that you would even believe me if I came to you with a problem? You never believed Christine that I existed until you saw me with your own eyes. You treated her like a child at best and a lunatic at worst, dismissed her fears repeatedly, and failed to save her from me when I went off the deep end. It was she who rescued you. So how ever do you explain that one, o clever Vicomte?” he interrogated, agitation surfacing. Erik wanted to believe Raoul, but it honestly sounded too good to be true.

Raoul bit his lip at the memory. “Don’t you think I learned my lesson after that?” he insisted, jumping up to a straight-backed sitting position. “In retrospect, I’m ashamed,” he admitted. “I should have had more respect for her, but I swear to you I’ve learned from that experience. I apologized to her many times over the fact and I haven’t doubted her since. Not once.”

“Oh, really?” Erik inquired, skeptical. “Well, I’d like to hear Christine’s testimony. Maybe I can trust you, if you’ve really changed as you claim. I just won’t know until I see her.”

Raoul threw up his arms. “Fair enough, Erik. I’m willing to give you that. In just a few more weeks, you’ll be able to discuss the matter with her. Then you’ll see. I’m not as naive as I was two years ago.” Suddenly, the dinner bell rang and Raoul got up to answer the call. Erik took hold of the harp again and began to play methodically, this time for personal comfort.

As Luc rolled the dinner table in, he stopped when he heard the music and peered over at Erik. “How beautiful,” he remarked. He got to setting up the table and chairs as he listened. “It will be wonderful to have Monsieur Destler at the chateau if he makes beautiful music for the whole house to enjoy.” He sighed and glanced at Raoul. “I do so miss Madame de Chagny’s singing.”

Raoul nodded to Erik, who seemed oblivious to them as he performed. “She will sing again when she is reunited with her Angel of Music. Probably more beautifully than she ever has before.”

“Well, his music is angelic. One can’t deny that,” Luc conceded. Raoul gave him a smile. The chef mirrored the look, straightened up a few things, and went back to the servants’ quarters.

Meanwhile, Erik kept playing. It was his nose and not his ears that informed him of the evening meal’s arrival. As soon as he finished, he put down the harp and went to join Raoul.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Meg glanced across the sunrise-illuminated saltwater with her head slumped over the railing. They had only been on the water a week and she was already very green around the gills. Seasickness had been the bane of her existence on the ship from Calais to New York two years ago, but she had survived and vowed never to go back. Now, she had no choice. With Phantasma sold for a high price and the Phantom on his way back to France, she was doomed to five more weeks of abject misery. Meg felt a hand descend on her shoulder. _“Kill me,”_ she croaked. “Put me out of my misery, Maman.” The only thing that helped in the least was the cold, but even that did not stop the nauseating motions of the ship as it sailed over the Atlantic waves.

“Here, my dear, take this. I got it from the clinic downstairs. It should help,” Madame Giry advised, offering her daughter two small pills alongside a small cup of water.

Meg reached a shaky hand over. She took and swallowed the pills as fast as she could, washing them down with the water. She felt like hurling, but she clapped both hands over her mouth and suppressed the urge with all her might. Her stomach calmed. “Thanks, Maman,” she grunted.

“Meg, I know you feel terrible about this whole situation. That’s why I’ve decided we can head straight to Chagny to confront the vicomte before we make for the new opera house in Paris. I admit, I’m worried about Erik too and I want to check on him,” Madame Giry suggested.

“Christine is the one I want to see,” Meg replied. “I want to know what made her think she could send her husband out to abduct people. She should be ashamed of herself.” She noticed her stomach starting to feel better and then sighed in relief. “Going to need a five-week supply of those pills, Maman.” She gradually let herself drop into a squatting position on deck, trying to avoid glancing through the rails at the nauseating waves. “I’m going back inside.”

Madame Giry nodded softly. “Come to the dining hall for breakfast at 8:30 if you are feeling okay. I’ll come and check on you if you don’t show up, Meg,” her mother stated.

“I’ll try,” Meg replied, rising to her feet. She turned and headed down the stairs to the lower deck. She went inside and passed by the dining and concert halls before she headed down a tight corridor lined with passengers’ cabins. The Girys’ cabin was at the very end. It was not much for luxury, but it came with its own bathroom. As soon as Meg passed the threshold into the cabin, Ayesha meowed loudly at her wanting dinner. Meg closed the door and smiled. The Phantom’s cat was the only thing onboard the ship that would make the voyage bearable to her.

She plucked the cat up from the cheap wood floor and carried her into the cramped bathroom, where she opened a can of tuna for her. Thanks to the nausea pills, Meg was able to bear the smell for once. “There you go, girl. Yum, yum.” As Ayesha ate, Meg went to plop down on her belly atop her cot-like bed. She pulled her diary out from under the pillow and opened it up.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

December 1, 1873

I dreamt about him again last night. It was amazing. This time we were back at the Opera Populaire long before the disaster. I was on an empty stage practicing my ballet all by myself after the others had left for the evening, as I often did in those days. Maman knows I’ve always taken dancing more seriously than the other girls. My body is my instrument, just as Christine’s is her voice. I could feel eyes upon me. I did not know from where they came, but I could feel them. Feel them grazing over every inch of my helpless form, practically stripping me of my tutu and leotard with their smoldering gaze. I trembled, yet continued the dance as if all was normal. I had been dancing to the music in my head, but then I heard music for real. I stopped and glanced around, not knowing where it was coming from since the piano was unattended.

“Dance!” a booming voice commanded. “Dance for me!” It was his. He was there. All around me. Meek and submissive, I squeaked out an affirmative response and did as he ordered, twirling and swaying to the music. The melody was slow at first, but then it sped up and me along with it. I began to pirouette and leap around the stage like a spring doe, circling repeatedly around the very center. With great enthusiasm, I bent and contorted myself to his every melodic command when finally—BOOM!—a trap door gave way beneath me. I was falling. Falling, falling, falling until I was caught by a pair of strong arms. In the dark, the pitch dark. I could not see a thing, but his alluring scent besieged my senses. I could feel his hot erotic breath on my neck.

“M-Master?” I managed to stutter out. He lit a torch. I barely got a glance of his beautiful terrible face before he unceremoniously threw me over his shoulder and carried me away. He took me through bleak winding tunnels and down an enormous swirling staircase. I squirmed lightly as he kicked the rats away. I knew what he intended to do and I sought to protect my honor, but I was no match for him—a defenseless woman against a Phantom’s spectacular strength and ingenuity. I didn’t stand a chance and I knew it. His lust for me was so great that he had not even the patience to use the gondola. He stomped through the shallow lake, drawing closer to his cryptic lair. The gate rose and he whisked me into a room resembling a dungeon.

Cornering me against a wall, he tore my leotard down the middle. My luscious breasts popped into view with a noticeable bounce. He groaned, drooling at the sight of them. I was exposed and vulnerable, so I tried to cover myself in vain. He chained my arms over my head, leaving me helpless to resist his forceful advances. He tore off my tutu like it was made of paper and the rest of my leotard followed. Trapped there in nothing but pink ballet slippers, I started to cry and beg him not to hurt me. His response was to give me a firm swat on the behind. “I will teach you to serve me, girl,” he decreed, pausing to remove his gloves so he could take one of my aureolas in hand. He rolled the tender flesh in his rough fingers as I whimpered. “And I will do with you what I will. Your body is mine to command. I will play you like a fine-tuned instrument until I am fully satisfied. My word is law. You are not to so much as question me,” said he.

He slipped a finger between my quivering thighs and parted me against my will, feeling my feminine juices flowing onto his fingertips. When he pulled back and swatted my bottom again, I cried out. The sudden sting made me jolt. My plump breasts bounced and jiggled as I whimpered. I could feel his lascivious eyes taking in my helpless shame, drinking my humiliation like a fine wine. I couldn’t help but squirm as he gently slipped a finger inside my virgin hole, carefully breaking through my barrier. It hurt a little, but I was far too hot to feel much pain. “You filthy girl. You’re already ready for me and I’ve hardly touched you. I think you need to be punished for being such a little tart,” he declared, unchaining me. He dragged me by the wrist over to the majestic swan bed and took a seat, pulling me over his lap. He started to spank me mercilessly, coming down rapidly and harshly on my rotund bare flesh. I couldn’t seem to help but bounce rhythmically to his delight, bucking my hips as I tried to escape.

I tried to reach a hand to protect my shapely posterior, but he captured and pinned it to the small of my back. I squirmed and wiggled, my breasts bobbling around at random without the support of my tight leotard. I whimpered and cried as the ache grew. He began to lecture me about my behavior with every swat, making it clear I was to conform to his expectations if I wanted my bottom spared in the future. He even chastised me for trying to escape punishment, stating he was going to do the front next. I didn’t know what he meant by that, but it was not long before he wore my tush out and then showed me just what he meant. He flipped me over onto my back and started to swat my pert pink nipples just as he had done my backside. They were so sensitive and it hurt, but he pinned my hands over my head so I couldn’t hope to shield them.

I was getting so hot. My body trembled with desire. My natural juices flowed down my legs and all the way to my feet, flying in droplets as I kicked my legs in futile resistance. I wanted him to enter me and fill me to the brim, stuff me full. I wanted his rock-hard cock nailing me into the center of the earth. Again and again and again. Powerful thrusts from a powerful man. Stuffing me with seed. Filling me with adorable genius babies. Forever. At his whim, his will, his every desire and need. To use my body to serve his however-debased purposes for the rest of eternity. I would deny him nothing. At last, he bent me over the bed and prepared to do what I had been wanting most of all. I could hear the sound of clothing rustling as he unleashed the beast. The beast I’d dreamt of for so long. He snarled as he lined himself up. And then… I woke up.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Meg used a shaky hand to close the diary and slide it back under her pillow. Her body trembled, the eroticism too much for her small frame to handle. There was to be no fulfillment. Every time she had a dream like this, it always ended just before she could feel him enter her. She could not possibly service herself in the way a man like him could service her. She needed to be filled. She needed to be overpowered. And most of all, she needed to be punished. The young ballerina played with her own sweet spot until she came, but it was no use. She dreamed of so much more than the feeble release she could create for herself. _Damn that vicomte_. She hated his guts. Why did he have to take the only one who could gratify her beyond all others? It was infinitely unfair. Finding no way out, Meg went into the bathroom and ran an ice-cold bath for herself.

If she could not get her needs fulfilled, then she would have to do the next best thing—repress and push them deep down. She craved numbness and that was something the frigid water could provide. She stepped in and lowered herself down, hissing at the initial pain the cold brought. Quickly, she became numb and did not feel much of anything, though soon she sensed her body was shivering. She stayed in the water a few minutes until she felt all sexual urges subside. Then she climbed out, dried off, got dressed, and checked the clock. It was just past 8:30. She was late for breakfast, so she sighed and headed out. At least now she had worked up an appetite.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

The weather soon snapped cold again when _La Dame Merveilleuse_ finally made landfall in late December. Snow flurries danced through the air as Erik and Raoul stood on the roof of the suite, watching the approach of the port of Calais. There were some men down inside the suite packing up Raoul’s belongings, which is why Erik was hiding on the roof until they finished. The harp had already been returned to its rightful owner, leaving Erik bored for the moment. Raoul was feeling impatient. “Thank goodness we’re here. I’m so sick of being trapped on a boat. Looks like we only have a few days to make it to Chagny. Let’s pray we don’t get held up,” the vicomte remarked, pulling his cloak tightly around himself in response to the biting windchill.

“Why do we only have a few days?” Erik inquired, raising a brow.

“Christmas Eve,” Raoul replied. “I promised Christine I’d be home to celebrate with her. Plus, I need to be there to entertain my business friends soon after. I sort of promised them too.”

“Hm.” Erik never thought much about Christmas. He had a tradition of exchanging a single gift with Madame Giry and that was it. That was all he did to celebrate the holiday. He had already made her gift for the upcoming Christmas, but he knew it was buried somewhere in the crates of all his things. He doubted that he would be able to give it to her on time, but still he was determined to get it to her. Meanwhile, he began to wonder what the holiday would be like at the Chagny estate. Christmas had been a fairly big deal at the Opera Populaire. He had observed the festive decoration of the interior and exterior of the opera house, as well as the set up of a giant glistening evergreen tree in the lobby. That was year in and year out, but he never really got to take part. Neither had he ever written or even played a piece of Christmas music. He turned to Raoul, having a sudden nervous thought. “How many people live in Chagny?”

“Thousands, but it is not crowded,” Raoul reassured, glancing to the west. The sun was going down and it would soon be nightfall. He was hoping to get them situated in a nice cabin on a freighter before it got too dark. “It’s more countryside than anything, though there is a fairly populous town square. My brother, niece, and several other family members live in the castle in the north of the estate. Christine and I wanted our own space, so we moved into the chateau in the south. It’s a beautiful place. There is a meadow, lake, and forest surrounding us packed with fish and game animals year-round. Wineries, orchards, and farmland are scattered over the estate too. We even have a hot spring near the castle. In the chateau, there are many spare rooms and two dozen servants. We entertained often right after the wedding when Christine was still well, but the traffic has died off recently,” he explained, seeming saddened on the last note.

In truth, Erik was relieved by the news. High human traffic was a threat as far as he was concerned. He even had thoughts of remaining unseen by all the servants, the only two exceptions being Luc and Rémy. At least, in their case, he already knew them and found them decently trustworthy. “I’m sorry to hear about Christine,” was all he had to say.

Raoul glanced back at the masked man with a smile. “She will be alright, I’m sure of it,” he declared. “In fact, I bet she’ll be back to her old self by early spring at the latest.” Erik nodded and leaned on the chimney. They both watched in silence as the ship pulled into port. Finally, the vicomte reached over and placed a hand on Erik’s upper back. “Let me go check to see if they’re done inside.” With that, he hopped down into the courtyard and proceeded indoors. He poked his head out a few moments later. “All clear!” he called up to the musician on the roof.

Erik hopped down and went inside to warm up. They would be disembarking soon and Raoul had only one small suitcase he intended to carry with him. The suitcases with their clothes and other basic needs were to be delivered to their cabin on the train for them. It was set to depart for Paris at eight o’clock that night with Erik’s many crates of personal belongings loaded into the caboose. From Paris, they would switch to a train to Beaune. Then, from Beaune, they would ride to Chagny by stagecoach. Erik was nervous. He was terrified in most crowds and the only disguise he had was a hooded cloak. All he wanted was to hide inside their cabin on the train. Hence, he planned to stick to Raoul like glue until they got to that most desirable of locations.

“Ready?” Raoul inquired, sticking his head into the bedroom where Erik was sitting quietly at the fireplace. “Let’s beat the crowd so we can be among the first to get off,” the nobleman proposed, beckoning Erik to get up and follow. They were both trussed up in full jackets and winter cloaks, Raoul with a top hat and fashionable walking cane. Erik positioned the hood of his cloak to keep his mask hidden and rose to his feet, following Raoul out of the suite. He was tempted to reach out and cling to Raoul’s cloak, but he feared that the vicomte might notice.

Even the upper class deck was bustling with people. Ladies in fancy hats and colorful bustle dresses scurried about with men in formal jackets and cloaks. Raoul and Erik met up with Luc and Rémy on the docking side of the ship, standing as close to the railing as possible. Erik’s biggest pet peeve was to be completely surrounded by people in a situation he could not control. The hooded man clung to the railing tightly with his gloved fingers as he attempted to avoid doing anything at all that might draw attention to himself. Rémy took the vicomte’s suitcase in hand, as the two manservants would be traveling alongside them the whole way.

“Bonjour Monsieur Destler, Monsieur de Chagny,” Luc greeted, tipping his hat to the both of them. Erik nodded. It had been Raoul’s idea to pretend Erik was mute so he could avoid talking to anyone. Seamen ran about the docks and deck, using enormous ropes to position the ship.

Raoul tipped his hat back to Luc. “Dreary day, isn’t it?” he remarked.

Luc nodded. “I do believe today is the coldest that it’s been yet this year, but at least we’re having snow instead of freezing rain. Could always be worse, I suppose.”

Erik shivered slightly as they waited eagerly to be let off the ship, always keeping an eye on the vicomte. Their mindless prattle about the weather annoyed him slightly. Finally, the ramp for the upper class was set up and people began to disembark just ahead of them. It was not long before they were standing on the docks. Erik followed Raoul up to the street where numerous rentable stagecoaches lay in wait for the upper and middle classes. The train station was across the street. Raoul bought tickets for two cabins next to each other, one for him and Erik and the other for Luc and Rémy. The train would arrive in an hour, which irked Erik to no end. He just wanted to get onto the train and hide until they reached Paris, but it appeared he would be forced to stand in a bustling crowd for a full hour. Raoul fixed the problem by proposing that they go to a nice restaurant for dinner while they awaited the train’s arrival. It was a very fancy place with private booths that no one outside could see into. Raoul collected everyone’s orders himself and was the only one needed to address the wait staff. Once the meal arrived and the server disappeared, Erik removed his hood. “I hate this place,” he made known, hardly paying his filet mignon any mind.

Raoul reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll be out of here soon enough,” he reassured, eating his quiche. “Remember, there aren’t so many people in the countryside.”

“But we have to go through Paris first,” Erik protested, absolutely dreading it. Paris was the location of so many horrible memories for him. He had hoped never to see it again.

“Well, we aren’t going to be there for long,” Raoul pointed out, taking a sip of his rose wine. “If there is much wait time between our arrival and our next departure, I might be able to take you to see the new opera house under construction. I would rather like to see it myself.”

Erik did not like the sound of that proposal at all. “I don’t want to go anywhere in Paris! I just want to get away from there are soon as possible,” the masked musician expressed.

“Eat,” Raoul reminded him, pointing to the filet mignon. “You’ll be hungry later if you don’t.”

Erik sighed and conceded, refocusing his attention on the evening meal. He picked up his fork and knife. By the time he was done, there was not a scrap left on the plate. Better still, there were only fifteen minutes left before they were to board the train. Erik felt relieved no one had hassled him yet. Perhaps they truly would make it to Chagny without so much as a hiccup.

“Taste some of the rose wine?” Raoul said, offering his glass.

Erik shook his head. “I need all my senses right now.”

Rémy cleared his throat. “I think the vicomte was merely commenting on how agitated you look, Monsieur Destler. I believe he hoped that the wine might help calm your nerves.”

Erik glanced over at Rémy, then at Luc, and then at Raoul. His stress level had not gone unnoticed by anyone present at the table. He looked again at the wine and shook his head. “I’m fine,” he replied, trying to reassure himself more than the rest. He pulled back the curtain to glance out the nearby window surreptitiously. The train had not yet arrived. He pulled up his hood again, feeling better overall when his face was completely hidden from view.

Raoul made small talk with his servants until the train finally came, Erik remaining quiet as a mouse the whole time. He followed directly behind the vicomte on the way to the train and tried to make himself look as small and insignificant as possible while Raoul handed the tickets to the conductor. The man was so rushed that he posed no barriers. Before Erik knew it, they had made it safely to the cabin. Once they got there, the masked man heaved a huge sigh of relief.

When they were all finally situated and the train was ready to leave, Raoul sat across from Erik in the cabin and brought out a deck of cards. “Care to play?” he inquired. Erik was tired, but not tired enough to go to bed yet. When he shrugged, Raoul set up the folding table between them and dealt the cards. The vicomte taught Erik his favorite game, which he soon regretted as Erik mastered the rules and started winning almost instantly. Frustrated, Raoul put the cards away as Erik grinned at him in satisfaction. The vicomte figured the result would be the same if he proposed they play chess, so he did not bother. Meanwhile, Erik gained a fascination with the dark French countryside out the window and eventually slumped against the wall of the cabin as the hour grew late. Raoul made him help set up the bed and they fell asleep quickly.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Christine helped decorate the massive tree in the entrance hall of Chateau Chagny. It was late morning on the 22nd of December and Christmas was just a few days away. If Raoul was not home by six o’clock on Christmas Eve to celebrate with her privately, Christine knew she would be very disappointed. Housekeepers, footmen, and hired decorators bustled about putting the finishing touches on all the decor both inside and outside of the building. As festive as the occasion was, Christine had a nagging feeling that Raoul was not going to show for the holiday. It made her sick to her stomach to think of celebrating without him. She hardly had an appetite for chicken soup, let alone the Christmas feasts she had come to expect at the Chagny estate. If Raoul was going to come, he was cutting it close time-wise as far as she was concerned.

“Aunt Christie!” came a familiar voice.

Christine and Raoul’s seven-year-old niece Amorette de Chagny came running into the entrance hall in one of her little Christmas dresses. She was the only child of Raoul’s older brother Comte Philippe de Chagny and his late wife Renée. A smile lit up Christine’s face as she turned to see Amorette galloping toward her at breakneck speed. A visit from the blonde curly-haired angel was always enough to brighten anyone’s day. “Amie, so nice of you to visit,” Christine greeted as the child nearly bowled her over with enthusiasm. “Oomph!” It took some effort, but Christine managed to pick herself and the girl up, placing the child on a bony hip. She took them both over near the large chimney where a nice fire was burning. “Come to pick up your presents?”

Amorette shook her head. “No, I want you to bring them with you to the Christmas gala at the castle so I can open them while you’re there. Papa says I shouldn’t open any presents before Father Christmas comes,” she replied. “I just came to say hi and see if Uncle Raoul is home yet.”

Christine made a small frown and shook her head. “With luck, he will be soon.”

“I miss Uncle Raoul,” Amorette protested. “What’s taking him so long?”

“Business, affairs of state. You know how it is,” Christine replied with a shrug.

Amorette’s face crinkled into a grimace. “I hate when Papa goes away. He always takes so long.”

“Where is your papa right now?” Christine inquired.

“He headed over to Rully this morning to meet with Comte Paul de Rully,” Amorette revealed. “He said it had something to do with a dispute over the county borders. I don’t really know what that means, but I’m guessing that he’ll probably be there all day,” she groaned.

Christine raised a brow. “Who brought you over then?”

“Lula!” Amorette hailed. “She says she’ll be along in a minute.”

Indeed, it was hardly a minute later that the girl’s governess made her appearance. “Madame de Chagny,” Lula greeted, coming in out of the cold. François Giles, the footman, closed the door after her and offered to take her lavish fur coat. The buxom woman gracefully handed it to him. “The wind is really picking up out there. Brrr,” she chimed. “Ah, but I see you have a lovely fire going.” She took in Christine’s frail appearance. “Oh dear, have you been feeling any better?”

“Raoul still isn’t home. I don’t know if he’ll make it in time for Christmas at all, so I don’t have much to feel good about,” Christine replied with a sigh, taking a seat on a cushion by the large fireplace with Amorette in her lap. Her young niece happily snuggled up to her.

“Well, he still has a day. Keep up hope. Besides, even if he is late, you can just delay your home celebration until he gets here,” Lula stated with a smile, sitting down on a cushion across from her. Her dress puffed out as she plopped down and she laid her hands neatly in her lap.

“Ooh!” Amorette suddenly cried, hopping up. “Lula, I want to give Aunt Christine her present now. It’ll make her feel better. I know it will. Please, please, please, please?” she pleaded, then turned to Christine. “I know Father Christmas hasn’t come yet, but you have to open it now.”

Lula’s eyes popped open. “Hey, that’s not a bad idea, my dear.” The governess turned to Christine. “She worked very hard on it. She’s really gotten quite good at sewing.”

“Don’t give her hints!” Amorette cried, turning to François. “Can you please get the big red bag in the carriage?” The footman nodded and disappeared outside. He reappeared with the bag in less than a minute and handed it to Amorette. The child pulled out a box wrapped in lustrous burgundy silk and tied with black lace, handing it to Christine. “You can get Uncle Raoul to put it on the top of your tree when he gets home,” she proposed. Christine smiled and gently untied the lace. She unwrapped the silk around the wooden box and lifted off the lid. She gasped when she saw a sewn figurine of the Phantom of the Opera, complete with white half-mask and cloak. “I made him just as you described,” Amorette said, gently taking the item out of the box. She handed it to Christine. “Now, you can have the Angel of Music with you wherever you go.”

“It’s adorable,” Christine remarked, giggling as she examined it. The figurine was like a plushie version of the Opera Ghost, but with a conical slot at the bottom in place of legs where it could be mounted onto the top of a Christmas tree. The mask appeared to be made of white silk and the wig of black goat hair. She reached over and embraced Amorette with the item still in her hand. “You know me so very well. This is the perfect present. Thank you very much, sweetheart.”

Amorette hugged her back. “It took me a whole month to make. I started at the end of October,” she admitted. Gently pulling back from the embrace, she suddenly frowned. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you the real thing. I don’t know where to find him, but I prayed for him to come.”

Christine used her fingers to brush a stray lock of golden hair out of little Amorette’s face. “That’s all any of us can do,” she replied, smiling with the corners of her eyes.

“Hey! You’re well enough to come to Christmas Mass, aren’t you, Aunt Christie?” Amorette inquired worriedly. “There’s going to be lots of carols and a candlelight vigil and, and, and I’m gonna get to be Mary in a skit about Baby Jesus. You have to see it, I memorized all my lines perfectly. Can you come? Can you, can you, can you?” the girl interrogated.

Christine laughed. “I will try my hardest to be there, even if Uncle Raoul isn’t home in time,” she replied, stroking the girl’s hair. “If that’s the case, I’ll tell him all about it when he gets back.”

“I talked to Father Doux the other day. He’s concerned that you haven’t been coming to church. You see, he wanted you to do a solo for one of the carols at Christmas Mass, but he hasn’t been able to get in contact with you. I told him that you weren’t feeling well and he told me to make sure you don’t stop praying or reading the Bible. If you don’t make it to Mass, then I’ll request a prayer just for you from the whole congregation. Okay? I promise,” Amorette said.

Christine coughed a bit. “I wish I could sing for Father Doux, but my voice just isn’t what it should be right now. And thank you, Amie. I appreciate that. Like I said, I will try to come. Some days are better than others. I felt good enough to get out of bed today, didn’t I?”

Amorette nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I got so excited when I saw you. I wish you could come play in the snow with me. Blaise and I are gonna make a huge fort in the castle garden when there’s enough snow. We were making snow angels earlier, but he had to go home for his piano lesson. You’re so skinny. I bet you’ll be able to fit inside our fort this year easy, Aunt Christie!”

“Amorette!” Lula scolded, earning a look of cluelessness from the girl. She sighed. “Don’t comment on people’s appearances. It’s not polite for anyone, let alone a young comtesse.”

Christine giggled. “I don’t mind.”

Amorette got up and ran to the window across the chamber to stare out into the snow. _“Wow.”_

“Perhaps not, but other people might, Madame,” Lula replied. “Her father wants me to teach her good habits. He’s quite strict about manners. But, then again, he is a nobleman.” She chuckled. “Your husband might be the same way with your children. Since losing their seigneurial rights in the Revolution, the nobility have been very committed to maintaining their image.”

Christine nodded. “Makes sense. I’m just glad the Chagny family survived the Reign of Terror.”

“That’s quite an interesting tale unto itself. Has Raoul told you?” Lula inquired.

Christine shook her head. “There’s a lot he’s told me, but still there’s so much more to know. I ask him whenever I read an interesting tidbit of history from the Chagny library collections.”

“I envy you,” Lula said with a sigh. “Usually only people related by blood or marriage can get in. The comte won’t even let me go inside with Amorette. I always have to wait outside, even though I’m her governess. It’s unfortunate. I’ve always been fascinated by local histories.”

Christine nodded. “It’s not just you. Philippe was reluctant to let me go in even after I married Raoul, but it feels like he has warmed up to me a great deal in recent months.”

“I think it’s a trust issue,” Lula explained. “He doesn’t dislike commoners by any stretch of the imagination. He just worries they won’t take the family history as seriously as would someone from another old family. If there’s anyone you need to look out for, it’s Grandma de Chagny.”

Christine cringed. “I just try to stay out of her way.”

“Wise choice.” Lula glanced around the large chamber with a look of slight paranoia. _“Anyway, best to avoid gossip,”_ she whispered to Christine warily. _“The walls have ears.”_

Christine bit her lower lip and nodded.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

“Ay! Why you drop my bag, eh? You could have broken the bottle!” ranted an overdressed redhead with a strong Italian accent. “That perfume is worth more than you.” Her portly maid nodded apologetically, picking up the shopping bag amid the bustling crowd.

The Gare du Nord was packed and very busy at that time of day, as were all the shops in and around it. That was to be expected, of course, as Christmas was just around the corner. Carlotta glanced to the right at a new train sitting on the tracks which had apparently just arrived from the north while she had been shopping in the nearby perfumerie. The self-absorbed soprano hardly paid it any mind as the doors opened and the passengers began to flood onto the already-crowded platform. Something familiar flashed before the diva’s eyes, forcing her to do a double-take. Unfortunately, whoever or whatever it was had momentarily disappeared into the dense crowd.

Carlotta raised a brow in interest. Though she did not really want to enter the denser part of the crowd near the tracks, curiosity got the best of her and she stepped forward. “Signora?” the maid spoke, trying to get her attention. The diva ignored the older woman and pushed her way past a gathering of working class folk, weaving in and out of couples and groups. A flash of long light reddish-brown hair, she saw it again. The man turned around, placing a hand on the top of his hat to keep it in place as he peered back and nodded to his companions with an amiable smile.

 _It’s him! The Vicomte de Chagny,_ she thought, instantly recognizing the nobleman. She grinned devilishly, pursuing him and his small group through the crowd and not particularly caring that her maid could not keep up. Though she obnoxiously pushed her way past the more humbly dressed, she could not seem to catch up with them. Trailing far behind, she kept the vicomte in sight as he led his friends up a stairway, down another, and onto a new platform where a train to Beaune had arrived. Crews busied themselves packing the caboose. The vicomte’s party had disappeared into one of the upper class cars before Carlotta could even reach them. _Beaune,_ she thought. _He must be heading back to Chagny. I must inform Marcel and Javert right away..._


	5. Chapter 5

To Erik’s fortune, there had been no fiasco in Paris. They had not even had to wait for the next train, as it was already there when they arrived. That was an excellent thing indeed because it was very cold, even inside the grand station. Now, they were on their way to Beaune.

The wind sounded chilling and Raoul could not help but shiver as he peered out the window of their cabin. He could not see or hear a thing past the roaring blizzard. The world was white. It was well past nightfall and they were due to arrive in Beaune the following evening. Erik was already asleep, but the vicomte was preoccupied with his thoughts. He thought mostly about Christine, about how sick she was when he had last seen her, and about how she would recover. Peering down at the sleeping genius, he wondered how to go about presenting Erik to Christine. He wanted it to be a special moment, but he doubted the Angel of Music would ever submit to the indignity of being gift-wrapped. Raoul chuckled, finding the mental image amusing.

Erik flopped onto his stomach and coughed lightly, glancing up at Raoul seated by the window. “There’s nothing to see,” he murmured, stuffing his face in a pillow. “Turn off the light.”

“I like blizzards when I’m not stranded in them,” Raoul uttered, glancing at the one lit gas lamp mounted on the wall overhead. He turned it off and kept staring out the window in the dark.

Erik groaned. “It’s past midnight. How are you not asleep?”

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Christine. She’s probably worried that I won’t show up for Christmas.”

“Who cares? You know you’ll show. It’ll be a pleasant surprise for her, so stop whining and go to sleep,” Erik snapped, pulling the blankets over his head. He fell asleep again pretty quickly. The vicomte continued to stare out the window for a bit longer until fatigue overcame him as well and he went to bed. Raoul did not wake up again until nearly two o’clock the following day. The train was still chugging away as Erik sat by the window writing on parchment. “That’s what you get for staying up late. We should be there in a few more hours,” he informed Raoul, grinning.

Raoul jumped up into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Afternoon already, you lazy ass,” Erik retorted. “Don’t expect me to entertain you until our arrival. I have more important things to do,” he indicated, nodding to his parchment.

Raoul coughed as he stretched, sliding to the end of the bed to start getting dressed. “You won’t be offended if I venture out to the cafe then, will you?” he inquired hopefully.

Erik shook his head. “Luc and Rémy said they would be there. They already brought me breakfast and lunch, so I should be satisfied until sundown at the earliest.”

“Great.” After the vicomte finished dressing, he went to join his servants for some pleasant conversation in the communal area of the train. The sun was soon on the western horizon. About an hour after nightfall, they arrived. Everyone except Raoul was tired from the whole voyage. Though the vicomte had hoped to make it over to the next town before settling at an inn for the night, his companions compelled him to select one in Beaune. They had had enough travel for one day, all having arisen in the early morning themselves. He ordered dinner to be delivered to their rooms from the inn’s tavern, trying to amuse himself as best he could in the bath while Erik was otherwise preoccupied with his writings. When he came out of the bathroom drying his hair with a towel, the food had been delivered and mostly obliterated. Meanwhile, Erik was lying passed out on the bed, having left just enough dinner to sate Raoul’s smaller appetite.

The vicomte could not help but roll his eyes in amusement as he headed to take a seat at the table. Glancing to the side, he noticed the musician had left multiple disorganized pages of parchment on one end of the tabletop. He cast a surreptitious glance at the sleeper on the bed and reached over, picking up the pages. Raoul knew Erik did not want him looking at his unfinished work, but the nobleman could not help himself. Curiosity had gotten the better of him. Unfortunately, he was soon disappointed to discover that all the writings had been done in a foreign language. It appeared to be German, or at least some related tongue. He shrugged, organized the pages into a neat pile, and got to work eating his supper by himself.

While he lay down to rest next to Erik at around ten o’clock, he did not find himself getting sleepy at first. He rolled onto his side and watched the musician sleep, still wearing his mask as always. While he appeared to be enjoying peaceful slumber, Raoul figured that the hard white porcelain had to be uncomfortable for Erik to have against his skin 24/7. Raoul had seen the man’s deformity before and was not particularly repulsed by it, but he thought it wise not to pressure Erik to remove the mask in his presence. There had to be some tactful way of letting the genius know he was not required to wear it without making him feel pressured to remove it against his will. These were the thoughts that swirled around in the vicomte’s head as he slowly grew drowsier and drowsier. It was almost midnight by the time he actually nodded off.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

Raoul had ordered a wakeup call for six in the morning, a repeated knock on the door that continued until the vicomte roused enough to call, “Thank you!” It was of paramount importance to him that they make it to Chagny by nightfall, so he had requested packed breakfasts and lunches for himself and his traveling companions from the inn’s tavern. The readymade meals were waiting for them in the landau, so all they had to do was throw their clothes on, pack their things away, and go. Raoul and Erik put on their cloaks last, Erik pulling the hood over his head, just as there came a second knock at the door. It was Rémy. “Merry Christmas Eve, Monsieur Destler! Merry Christmas Eve, Monsieur de Chagny! Shall I take your bag now, Vicomte?”

“Merry Christmas Eve to you as well,” Raoul mumbled tiredly, handing over his bag. He shook his head to wake up a bit more. “And thanks, my friend,” he added, flashing a festive smile.

Having slept well, Erik had a light feeling in his heart when he set eyes on Rémy. He was rather taken aback by the man’s merriment. It had the effect of making Erik wonder just how different this Christmas would be than all the others. He was going to be surrounded by people for the first time, just as one should be on such a joyous day of the year. The masked man nodded, feeling slightly awkward as he returned the greeting. He followed them both out of the inn.

Erik was not in the mood to be cooped up in the cabin of a stagecoach, even though it was still dark outside. He climbed right up to the driver’s box and sat next to Luc. Raoul glanced up in surprise. “Erik, what are you doing? Aren’t you going to get inside?” asked the vicomte.

“No.”

“Why not?” Raoul inquired.

Erik glanced down at him. “Why do you care?”

“Because I’ll be bored,” he whined. “All Rémy’s going to talk about is his wife the whole time.”

“And all you’re going to do is talk about _your_ wife. There, you have something in common. Hope that helps,” Erik retorted, not caring in the least about the vicomte’s plight.

Raoul frowned. Recognizing Erik was in another obstinate mood, the nobleman gave up and climbed inside the stagecoach. Rémy finished loading up the luggage and went in to join him. About two hours into the ride, the sun shone from the east on a slightly-chilly morning. Clouds came in from the north and it started to snow heavily on the pristine countryside. A series of flurries textured the horizon and it started to get colder and darker with the approaching heavy cloud cover. While Erik enjoyed the snowfall fluttering around him for a while, eventually he started to feel too cold. He shook off the snow, climbed down, and boarded the stagecoach while the vehicle was still in motion. The action rather startled his traveling companions.

“Erik, that was dangerous!” Raoul admonished as the man in the mask settled in beside him, pulling his hood back and covering himself in the cabin’s warm blankets.

Erik snorted, waving off the vicomte’s concerns as he snatched a muffin or two from the dozen Rémy held in an open box. He started to stuff his face, then chewed and swallowed. “How much longer is this trip going to take? Why can’t you have a train going directly to Chagny?”

Raoul sighed. “My brother and I have been working on getting some tracks to skirt the county. We just don’t want them anywhere near the residential areas. In fact, there’s an ideal location for them, but we have to obtain agreement from the owners of adjacent territories because the tracks will run through their lands too. It’s a complicated situation…” he tried to explain.

“Okay, whoa! Vicomte, that’s way more information than I cared to hear and I guarantee you it has gone in one ear and out the other,” Erik interjected, cutting him off. “Plus, you didn’t answer my first question. Also, what do we do when we get there? And when will my stuff arrive? And where do I put it? And will there be lots of people at your chateau? How do I know who to trust? Do you have a music room? And what about this so-called ‘brother’ of yours? And where is this local theater you mentioned?” he continued, bombarding the vicomte with his inquiries.

“Slow down!” Raoul insisted, getting overwhelmed with all the questions. “It will take until almost nightfall. When we get there, you go in through the back so Christine won’t see you because I want to surprise her. Your stuff will be delivered over the next day or two and there are plenty of empty rooms for you to use. I’ll let you pick which ones you prefer. The only people at my chateau are my servants and Christine and I believe my servants to be trustworthy. Yes, I have a music room. What about my brother? His name is Philippe and he lives in the castle. And the theater is in the town. I’ll show you where within the next couple of days if you like.”

Erik looked at him skeptically. He had another question to ask, but it would shatter his pride if he so much as uttered a word of it. It was a sincere concern of his since their voyage was almost over. He knew Raoul would go back to sleeping with Christine. The thought of sleeping alone again terrified him. He thought of a subtle way to phrase the question. “Where do I sleep?”

Raoul paused, glancing at the musician. “We have at least ten spare bedrooms. I thought you should take the one next to mine so I can keep an eye on you,” he suggested with a grin, pointing two fingers into his own pupils and then turning them on Erik’s. “That is, of course, assuming the thought of Christine and I lying in a bed together doesn’t bother you too much.”

Erik snorted. “I don’t care about that,” he said, slumping into the corner. “As long as the bed is comfortable,” he lied, covering up his concerns. In reality, he could not care less about the bed. He just did not want to be alone again. Raoul’s proposal was not ideal, but it did sound like a fair compromise. Knowing there was going to be someone nearby was mildly comforting.

Raoul eyed Erik carefully. “All the beds in the estate are comfortable. If you don’t like yours for whatever reason, we can always have a different one put in. Any complaints, take them up with Rémy or I.” Rémy smiled in confirmation and Erik nodded, seemingly contented by the news. Raoul watched as the masked man devoured the rest of his breakfast and then dozed off from boredom. If not for the road being so bumpy, he likely would have preoccupied himself with his writings. Meanwhile, the vicomte looked out the window at the falling snow and got lost in thought. He roused Erik around noon for lunch, at which point they stopped the carriage briefly so everyone could eat at the same time in the warmth of the cabin. When Rémy finished, he switched out spots with Luc as the driver to give the chef a much-needed break. After lunch, Raoul and Luc got into a weather-related discussion that was of so little interest to Erik that he climbed out of the moving coach once again and back up to the seat to sit beside Rémy.

“Erik!” Raoul called crossly.

The musician ignored him as he settled in next to the butler. It was still snowing, just much more lightly than it had been that morning. Back inside the carriage, the vicomte growled to himself in frustration and turned back to the snowy countryside. Time seemed to fly faster from that point on because they had arrived in Chagny before they knew it. The nobleman poked his head out the window as the tall baroque-style chateau peeked at them through the snow-laden trees in the distance. The sun hovered high above the western horizon once the sky cleared up a bit. “Drive around the back when we get there, Rémy,” Raoul instructed the driver, receiving a nod.

🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎻🌹🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎶🎶

It was late afternoon by the time the stagecoach arrived at the back terrace. Luc got out and helped Rémy with the unloading. Meanwhile, Raoul beckoned Erik back into the cabin of the landau and told him to stay put while he ran inside. Erik glanced out the window at the palatial mansion. _And that’s not even the castle,_ he thought. The musical genius had made up his mind; Raoul de Chagny was too damn rich. Of course, Christine would have married him. Any woman would be insane not to. The composer slumped against the backrest again, anxiety brewing in the pit of his stomach. From what Erik could tell, he was going to meet Christine again in a few minutes and he was not sure at all how it would go—or whether he even wanted to. But it was too late to turn back at this point. Phantasma was probably sold for all he knew, so he had nothing to go back to anyway. His mind turned to wondering about how the Girys were faring. When he had last seen them, Netta’s poor daughter had been particularly distraught.

Erik managed to push the less-than-pleasant thoughts out of his head by the time the vicomte came back, looking very excited indeed. “She’s in the entrance hall. Come. The servants are going to help me surprise her,” Raoul declared in a delighted tone of voice. He reached in the cabin and offered a hand to the jittery genius, which Erik did not care to accept.

Erik climbed out of the stagecoach without assistance, but soon found himself being dragged by the wrist behind what would appear to be an overeager and very oversized schoolboy. “Hey!” the masked musician protested as they hurried through an arcade loggia and then into what looked to be a dining room sizable enough to seat seventy-five people, maybe even more.

 _“Shh! Don’t make a sound, Erik,”_ the Vicomte de Chagny whispered as they crept into a wide corridor. At the end of one of the hallways was a pair of large double doors that were barely cracked open. Raoul peeked out and then stepped back, carefully taking off his snow boots.

Curious, Erik leaned in for a glance. The doors led to a huge entrance hall down a short flight of stairs. Two stories tall, it was like an enormous ballroom with a vast painted dome at the top. In the center, a grand Christmas tree stood tall. Elevated hallways with arches lined the chamber, overlooking the towering fir and ballroom floor. In the far back of the chamber was a huge open fireplace. A thin figure sat on a cushion near the fire, reading a book. _“Christine?”_ the masked man whispered, boggled by her appearance at first. He squinted his eyes to see better.

Raoul quickly hushed him. _“Stay here and don’t make any noise,”_ he carefully instructed. Just then, the vicomte ran down another hall and disappeared. Erik watched through the cracked door as the young nobleman later appeared in a corridor behind Christine. He snuck over to her in his wool stockings, keeping perfectly quiet as he tiptoed down the stairs. When he reached her, he quickly placed both hands over her eyes, evoking a small gasp that echoed across the entrance hall. Erik could not help but roll his eyes. “Guess who!” Raoul announced boisterously.

Christine’s open-mouthed expression quickly evolved into a beaming toothy grin when she heard his voice. “Raoul!” she cried, jumping up from her spot. He released her and she turned to jump on him, wrapping her legs around his waist in excitement. They both laughed loudly.

“Merry Christmas Eve, my Little Lotte!” Raoul greeted before she locked lips with him.

She pulled back a second later. “I can’t believe you made it! I was so worried I would have to spend Christmas without you. Oh, Raoul, Amorette was here the other day looking for you. We must send word that you’ve arrived home to the castle immediately,” she declared.

“Yes, yes, yes! But before we do anything, I must give you your Christmas present,” he replied, lowering her down to her feet. He spun her around and hugged her from behind.

“Aw, don’t we usually wait until after dinner? It’s only in a couple hours,” she giggled, glancing at him over her shoulder. She cupped his right cheek and kissed the left. “I can wait.”

“Oh, but you don’t understand. This whole trip I just got back from, it wasn’t a business trip at all. Well… I did handle some business along the way, but that’s beside the point. I was on a quest, my dear. And I don’t think the gift I brought for you wants to wait till after dinner to meet you,” Raoul countered, giving her a smile and a wink. “What do you say?”

Christine placed a hand over her mouth. She was clueless. How could she ‘meet’ her gift? She wondered if it was some kind of exotic pet. “What is it?” she inquired, dying of curiosity.

“Close your eyes,” Raoul instructed. She let her eyelids flutter closed as he placed one hand over them. He turned her slightly to face Erik’s secret location and waved for him to step forward.

The masked man tiptoed out from the corridor and approached the top of the stairway, facing them. He wrapped his cloak around himself, his heart thundering. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he began to wonder if he was sweating visibly from where they were. He quickly wiped his forehead with a handkerchief just before Raoul removed his hand from Christine’s face.

“Merry Christmas, Christine!” Raoul said as she set eyes on Erik at last.

Christine froze, the smile devolving into a look of pure shock. She gazed at Erik for a moment in slack-jawed silence. It was him. The Phantom. Her Angel of Music. He was alive and present. The revelation was more than she could bear. She placed a hand to her heart and swooned.

Erik dove forward on instinct. Luckily, the vicomte had the reflexes to catch the frail woman before she hit the floor. Raoul blinked as he gently lowered his wife to the ground, cradling her. “Well, that didn’t quite go as planned…” he uttered, hefting her back up in his arms.

Erik waved it off. “That’s not the first time I’ve made her swoon,” he remarked, strutting over to the Christmas tree. He walked all around it, examining it in curiosity. Never in his life had he seen that many Christmas presents all in one place. It was like a mountain beneath the towering fir. He pointed to the seating by the fireplace. “Put her down there. She’ll be fine.”

Raoul frowned and did as Erik instructed. When the vicomte put her down on an armchair, he waved a hand in front of her face, but received no reaction. She was out cold. Out of paranoia, he checked her pulse. “She’s alive,” he declared, heaving a sigh of relief as he plopped down on a nearby cushion. “Do you make girls faint a lot?” the young nobleman thought to ask.

“I often avoid them, as with all people,” Erik replied. “So, in short, the answer is no.” While he was intent on exploring every nook and cranny of the place, he wanted to see Christine close up. He approached the fireplace and examined her. She was thin as a rail. “Vicomte, have you been starving your wife? I never would’ve let you run off with her if I’d known you’d do this!”

“It’s not my fault she has no appetite!” Raoul countered, drawing back defensively as the man came over. “I’ve been trying to get her to eat, I swear it. None of the doctors can find anything wrong. I’ve already spent a fortune on her medical care with nothing to show for it. I don’t know what to do! And why are you still calling me Vicomte?” he charged, visibly afflicted.

Erik ignored Raoul’s last question. “Has she been practicing her music at all?”

“No,” Raoul exclaimed, obviously distressed. “I haven’t heard her hum a single tune in months. She doesn’t even go into the music room anymore. It started out as her favorite room.”

“It seems like she has a bad case of lost passion. She lost sight of the very thing she lived for and, by extension, has lost her passion for life. Self-starvation is a slow form of suicide. Luckily for you two, however, what is lost can be found. Where is your music room?”

Rémy stepped forth. “I can accompany you there, Monsieur. It is opposite the direction you came in,” he said, leading the way. Indeed, the music room was opposite the entrance hall from the dining room. Rémy helped Erik push the large double doors wide open. It was a sizable space, painted gold and lined with burgundy drapes. There was a door at the end leading to a portico outside and a great glass chandelier. A golden harp and grand piano adorned the place, as well as multiple other smaller instruments used as ornamentation on the walls. The sitting area for the audience was around an open fireplace. All in all, it was beautiful and well kept.

Erik wandered over to the harp and sat down on the silk-embroidered stool that came with it. He ran a finger across the strings, immediately cringing at how flat they sounded. While the room was cared for by the maids, it was clear there had not been any performances here in quite some time. The instruments themselves were neglected and horribly out of tune. Quickly, the musician went to work tuning the harp from its highest to lowest strings. It took a while, but at last the instrument began to sound harmonious. He walked over and tested the piano, grinding his teeth at the cacophonous noise that came out of it. It was even more out of tune than the harp and he did not have the equipment needed to tune it right then and there. He brushed past it and walked back to the entrance hall. “Your instruments have been very neglected. I fixed the harp, but the piano needs tuning,” he informed Raoul, plopping down on a cushion near Christine.

“I’ll get it tuned right away,” Raoul assured. Just then the young soprano’s eyes fluttered open. The vicomte took immediate notice and knelt by her side. “Christine, are you alright?”

Christine did not answer, but immediately stiffened and sucked in a breath when she spotted her old music teacher again. Their eyes met. She rose to her feet slowly, her gaze locked with his. The man followed her example and stood, saying nothing at first. Raoul watched in curiosity as she stepped forward, standing but a foot and a half away from the masked marvel. She raised her hand to touch his face, if only to confirm that he was truly there in the flesh and not a figment of her imagination or troubled mind. Erik’s eyes widened at the gesture. He clapped a hand over his mask and stepped back, not knowing what she might do. “I learned my lesson the first two times I let you put your hands on my face,” he stated boldly, taking another step away.

Raoul almost chuckled, but Christine’s face fell in a look of shame and sorrow. “I-I’m sorry,” she uttered, pausing for a moment in silence. She looked up at him. “Angel?” she said.

Erik flashed a glance at the floor and cleared his throat before replying in a self-conscious tone of voice. “What?” he asked. Christine leapt into his arms, squeezing him around the ribs like she would never let go as she buried her face in his wool jacket. Erik raised his arms and held in a gasp, startled by her reaction. It felt a bit awkward. He had never been hugged in that manner, so he was not sure what to do with his arms. Eventually, he settled on resting them on her shoulders. “Christine, why have you not been eating? Or singing, for that matter?” he interrogated.

She choked out a cough as if she would start sobbing. “I don’t know,” she croaked, digging her fingers into his jacket. “I was sad when I realized I might never hear your voice again.”

The sensitive musician gritted his teeth at the rough sound of her voice as she struggled to keep her emotions under control. “Well, you’re hearing it now. I didn’t spend years of my life training you only for you to squander your gift. You need to fatten up first though. I expect you to…”

“Sing for me,” Christine blurted, hugging him tighter.

 _“How am I supposed to do that with you compressing my lungs, Christine?”_ Erik countered in a higher-than-usual-pitched voice. Christine laughed and drew back, wiping a tear away from her face with the back of her hand. Erik shook his head. “I’ll sing for you after dinner if I’m satisfied with how much you ate. And then a music lesson.” Erik glanced down haphazardly and froze as he noticed a strange item lying on the floor. Raoul and Christine followed his gaze down to the small Phantom plushie that Amorette had made. “What. The. Hell,” he spoke with pronounced pauses, “Is. This?” He bent down and picked the item up, then met eyes with Raoul.

The vicomte’s eyes widened when he saw what it was. “I-I’ve never seen that before in my life,” he proclaimed, holding up his hands in response to the accusative stare from Erik.

Christine looked down as Erik turned to her next, wringing her hands. “Amorette made that.”

Erik raised a brow. “Who, may I ask, is Amorette?”

“Our niece,” husband and wife replied in unison.

Erik stared at them, his eyes flitting from Christine to Raoul and back again. “O-kay…”

Christine smiled and added, “She’s seven.”

“Oh!” Raoul blurted, clapping his hands excitedly. He startled both Christine and Erik. “On that note, I’d like you to give Amorette singing lessons. I’d been meaning to ask. Would you?”

Erik dropped the plushie onto the armchair. Christine then scooped it up and cuddled it. He gave her a weird look, which she pretended not to see and glanced back at Raoul. “That depends if she has any degree of natural talent. I won’t waste my time on someone with little potential.”

“Amorette has a beautiful voice,” Christine interjected. “She sings for the choir at the cathedral.”

Erik eyed Christine. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he retorted, making her pout.

Rémy reappeared and cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “Monsieur de Chagny, would you like your Christmas feast served here or in the dining room? I see you have not many guests this year, so perhaps here would be more intimate, non?” suggested the butler.

“Yes, this room is the most festive, I think. Bring a table over here. This is where we’ll eat, right in front of the fire,” Raoul proposed, walking over to the hearth to throw another log in.

Rémy nodded and started moving the seats and cushions aside to make room for the dinner table. As he did so, Christine walked over to the wall and rang the bell for Babette. The blonde woman promptly popped her head in to greet them with a festive expression, “You rang, Madame?”

The stranger’s appearance startled Erik and he bolted for the closest door. Raoul used quick reflexes to snatch the back of his jacket collar as he ran past, effectively detaining him. “And where do you think you’re going?” Raoul asked as the composer peered back at him, panic on his half-masked face. “You aren’t going to hide from my staff, are you? That’s not polite.”

Erik gritted his jaw, yanking himself out of Raoul’s grip and straightening his coat. “No,” he snapped, flustered. “Of course not. I just… wanted to get parchment. I have an idea.”

“Right,” Raoul countered, giving him an incredulous look.

Christine beamed when she met eyes with Babette. She turned and pointed to Erik. Babette’s mouth dropped open when she spotted the musical genius. She walked slowly into the entrance hall, spellbound by the visitor. As she met eyes with him, he watched her in turn with a mien of uncertainty. “Your Angel of Music?” she asked Christine, receiving a nod. “In the flesh?” she added, receiving an even more enthusiastic nod. “Lord above!” she exclaimed, hustling over. Erik sucked in a gasp, stepping back yet suppressing the impulse to shrink behind Raoul. She offered him a curtsy and handshake. “How do you do? I’m Babette, the lady’s maid of Chateau Chagny. I can’t believe you’re really here! It must be some Christmas miracle.”

“If it’s a miracle, then I’m a miracle worker,” Raoul declared with a proud grin, giving Erik a firm pat on the back. “You’re welcome. My hard work in tracking him to America is what got him here. I thought he would make the perfect gift for Christine and I can see I was right.”

“Thank you, Raoul!” Christine proclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck as she gave him a passionate kiss. When she pulled back, she glanced over at Erik with a raised brow. “What were you doing in America?” she inquired, stunned to learn he had gone so far away.

Erik shrugged. “Running an attraction… but it doesn’t matter now. If your vicomte wants me to go back into opera and is willing to fund the project, then why should I not oblige? It always was my greatest passion and he has given me the opportunity to engage in it legitimately.”

“Erik, why are you still calling me Vicomte?” Raoul groaned.

The masked man shrugged again. “Because you are one?”

“Wait… _Erik_?” Christine’s voice interrupted them both, glancing up at the genius. She had never heard his real name before. In fact, she had never even been sure that he had one.

Facing the women, Raoul clapped a hand heartily on the musician’s back again. “Erik Destler. That’s his name. Also known as the Angel of Music or Opera Ghost.” He rested his left hand on Erik’s shoulder and used his free hand to point him square in the face as they locked eyes. “Stop calling me Vicomte,” he lightly scolded. Another new face appeared in the chamber helping Rémy carry the dark mahogany table into the entrance hall and down the stairs. It was a thin redheaded youth who hardly took notice of Erik at all. The vicomte gestured to him. “That is Etienne Poulin, the under cook. He assists Luc in the kitchen,” Raoul explained, letting his left arm drop to his side. “He’s trying to save enough money to attend cooking school in Paris. Quite an admirable and hard-working lad. For now, he’s apprenticing with our chef. Merry Christmas Eve, Etienne,” Raoul greeted, giving the sixteen-year-old boy a warm smile and nod.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Monsieur de Chagny,” Etienne replied once they got the table positioned. “We are preparing quite a feast downstairs. I hope you have an appetite worked up.”

Raoul laughed. “Oh, I had a light lunch so you better believe it.” Etienne smiled and nodded before returning to the kitchen. The vicomte glanced over at Babette. “Could you please tell Odette to get the bed and bath next to the master suite ready for a guest by tonight?”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Babette replied, “I’ll hop right to it.” She turned tail to disappear through the camouflaged wall-door to the servants’ quarters downstairs in the basement.

“Odette?” Erik inquired.

Raoul nodded. “Odette Lavigne. She’s our chamber maid here at the chateau. She’s very nice,” he explained. “You might see her around now and again cleaning floors and dusting. She’s quite a stickler about cleanliness and, as you can see, she does a very good job.”

Rémy disappeared and reappeared with a table cloth, a wine stand filled with ice, and a scented Christmas candle. He set the wine stand down near a corner of the table and gracefully covered the tabletop with the rich burgundy cloth, setting the candle down in the center and lighting it. Once again, he disappeared and returned with a large silver platter balanced in one hand. It was covered with dishes, silverware, sliced bread in a basket, and three beverages. He set the table to perfection. “For this evening, we have a lavender cocktail as our apératif and an hors-d’oeuvre of pumpkin and goat cheese tarts. Our entrée is sweet-tart suckling pig roasted with preserves, then a salade of peas and beets with kalamata vinaigrette. Lastly, we will be serving a sampling of fromages from around the south of France with chocolate fondu and vanilla éclaires.”

Erik’s eyes widened. That was one hell of a menu the butler had confronted them with. “This is your typical Christmas feast?” the man in the mask inquired, glancing over at Raoul.

“This is our Christmas Eve feast. We will be having our Christmas Day feast over at my brother’s castle just before the gala tomorrow evening,” Raoul corrected. “It will be heavily attended and it has always been tradition for everyone to dress up in extravagant costumes.”

“I’m going as the Paper Ballerina,” Christine said.

Erik’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “Uh… how heavily attended?”

“Hundreds, of course,” the young nobleman readily replied. He leaned over and murmured in the musician’s ear, _“It’s a costume party. Masks are optional. You’ll be fine.”_

 _“But…”_ Erik began to protest.

Christine frowned. “What are you whispering about?”

The Vicomte de Chagny pulled back from Erik. “Nothing, Little Lotte,” he told her reassuringly, just before turning his attention back to Erik. “Christine and I have a wardrobe just for costumes. We can try some on later this evening. For now, let’s take a seat at the table here.”

Christine and Erik followed him to the table and got settled. Husband and wife sat next to each other across from the masked man so they could more easily converse with him. Erik started to copy everything Raoul did from whipping open the silk napkin to setting it properly in his lap and taking a sip of the cocktail. Erik’s face scrunched up at the taste of the alcohol. It was the first time he had tried it. It had a subtly sweet lavender taste in the background that was pleasant, but he was not so fond of the gin ingredient. Rather than complain, he continued to mirror Raoul to amuse himself. They simultaneously reached for a slice of bread, Raoul taking one from one end of the basket and Erik taking one from the other end in perfect unison. That was when Raoul froze and he eyed Erik suspiciously. His former rival responded with a shit-eating grin.

“It’s not polite to imitate people,” Raoul decreed in a calm voice, pointing accusingly at Erik.

Erik’s grin widened. “It’s not polite to point,” he replied, using the correct knife to gracefully butter the bread in a very vicomte-like manner. He took a smug bite and Christine laughed. Raoul narrowed his eyes at Erik and took another sip of his beverage. Immediately, Erik dropped the grin and narrowed his eyes at Raoul, also taking a sip of the slightly acrid-tasting cocktail. Erik figured it had to be an acquired taste and one could only acquire it by forcing oneself to drink it. Suddenly, he lost interest in Raoul and pointed to the bread. “Christine, eat.”

Christine frowned. Of course, she should have expected him to be the strict music teacher he had been before. She took a slice of bread from the basket and buttered it, obediently doing as he had instructed. She bit off a chunk, chewed, and swallowed, enjoying the flavor and crunch. “Angel, how many more years of voice training do you think I need until I reach my full potential?”

“A typical opera singer reaches his or her voice’s full potential at around the age of thirty. However, being that you are a prodigy, I expect you to need no more than two years of lessons if you wish to excel. That’s when you should have mastered everything I have to teach you. Even after that, however, your voice will continue to improve until it peaks between twenty-eight and thirty-two years of age,” Erik explained, taking another sip of the cocktail. “So you have at least ten years to go until you get to that point. Now, I’m judging by what the quality of your voice was when I last heard you sing. If you’ve grown rusty, you have some catching up to do first.”

Christine nodded, looking down at her plate in abashment as she took another bite. Meanwhile, Raoul was looking back and forth between the two of them wondering why Christine so readily obeyed Erik’s orders and not his. He had been telling her, even begging her to eat for months. Yet she would only pick at her food and now she had finished the entire slice of bread and was already grabbing another. Raoul was about to question them when Rémy showed up and served each of them three small goat cheese tarts. The portions were small but tasty and the man in the mask was pleased when Christine ate all of hers without him needing to prompt her.

The suckling pig smelled divine as Rémy came to serve them the entrée. Glazed with fruit preserves over a brown crunchy skin, it came with a slightly oaky flavor from the oven it had been cooked in. It had been sliced and diced and aesthetically arranged on the platter, the head of the piglet serving as the centerpiece stuffed with a small apple. Each diner was served however many slices he or she requested and Erik made sure that Christine’s plate was piled up. The salad was also tasty. Although Erik did not like the beets, he ate them anyway to set an example.

Finally the dessert came, which to Erik was the best part of the meal overall. There were twenty different cheeses cut up in small portions, all of which paired well with the chocolate fondu and a special white wine. The éclaires were likewise bite-sized, but the entirety of the meal left everyone feeling very full and satisfied. By the time they were finished with dinner, it was eight o’clock at night. Raoul sent the chamber maid into the music room to light the chandelier and prepare the room for use. When it was ready, Erik jumped up and led the others inside.

Erik pointed directed at the old piano. “I’ve decided that this piece of crap needs to be replaced with a pipe organ,” he decreed. “Don’t bother getting it tuned. It’s useless.”

Raoul frowned. “But that piano’s been in the family for generations. It’s an heirloom.”

“If this pitiful item is so precious to you, why has it been so horribly neglected?” Erik pointed out. “I press a single key and it sounds like an animal being tortured to death.”

“I’ve just been so busy… I haven’t had a chance to practice in a long time,” Raoul admitted, glaring briefly at Christine when she snickered at the masked man’s snide comment.

Erik looked surprised. “You play?”

“Did… once.”

The musician shrugged. “Well, if you want to salvage this heap of junk, then get all the strings replaced and properly tuned and have the interior of the instrument thoroughly cleaned. I think I just saw a spider crawling around down in the soundboard,” he sassed. “The other parts should also be inspected and replaced if necessary. And most importantly of all, _play it regularly_.”

“Okay, I will!” Raoul charged defensively.

“But we still need a pipe organ in here,” Erik decreed. “That is my instrument of choice and I refuse to live in a place without one. It should be against that wall there,” he indicated, pointing. “You can move those decorations elsewhere. If you want the instrument to match the decor, then we can paint it gold—but don’t gild it. Real gold makes instruments sound wretched.”

“I told you on the ship that I would get one for the chateau, but I forgot to mention that my brother’s castle has an enormous pipe organ that I know you’ll love,” Raoul informed him.

Erik raised his brows in interest at the news, heading over to the harp. “We will have to check that out tomorrow evening then,” he said, taking a seat on the embroidered stool. When Christine sat down at the piano bench, Erik eyed her in warning not to touch the keys. “As for the harp… I tuned it, but it still needs new strings. These ones look like they’re about ready to snap.” He ran a finger over the strings gracefully and began to play Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Christine closed her eyes to listen. Once the song was over, Raoul spoke up. “Can’t you play something more Christmasy? That song seems a little bleak for the season.”

Erik raised a brow at the request. “Honestly, I’ve never really delved into Christmas music.”

Christine jumped up from the piano bench and threw the top open, scouring the music books in a frenzy. Erik and Raoul jolted in surprise and stared at her with confusion. She took out a red and gold book and grabbed a music stand, bringing it to rest on the left side of the harp. The soprano opened the book to a certain page and set it down on the stand, gazing at Erik expectantly.

Erik peered at the music. _“Joy to the World,”_ he read. Christine nodded like a schoolgirl. “Alright, I’ll try it,” he conceded. Christine and Raoul both pulled up a chair as Erik began to play the jubilant song perfectly, his fingers gliding from string to string with ease. Once he had played it through one time, his listeners clapped. He signaled for Christine to rise. “Time to see what state your voice is in,” he said, evoking a nervous look from her. “Don’t be shy.” He led her through several vocal warm ups. “Now, open up your vocal cords. Breathe like I taught you before. Alright. Next time I play the song, I want you to sing the lyrics loud and clear. Ready?”

“Yes,” Christine replied, nervous. He started to play. _“Joy to the world. The Lord is come. Let earth receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing.”_

 _“And heaven and nature sing,”_ Erik echoed.

Then together they chanted, _“And heaven, and heaven and nature sing.”_

Erik stopped playing. “That was good. However, your voice is a little weak. That should improve with regular practice, especially as you gain weight back. It’s partly the size of your body that controls the strength of your voice. That’s why most opera singers are not as slight as you are.” While Erik gave off the air of being totally absorbed in the music lesson, in the back of his mind all he could think about was the absurd jollity of the tune. He felt green with envy, as whoever had written the carol clearly had experienced ludicrous levels of bliss beyond what Erik himself would ever have the privilege of being exposed to. He tried to shake off the bleak feeling.

Christine nodded. “Can we go again?”

“Okay, all the way through this time,” Erik said. “One, two, three.” He started to play.

Christine sang, _“Joy to the world! The Lord is come. Let earth receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing.”_

 _“And heaven and nature sing,”_ Erik once again echoed.

 _“And heaven, and heaven and nature sing,”_ they sang in unison.

Christine sang out stronger than before, _“Joy to the world! The Savior reigns. Let men their songs employ. While fields and floods, rocks, hills, and plains repeat the sounding joy.”_

 _“Repeat the sounding joy,”_ Erik repeated.

 _“Repeat, repeat the sounding joy,”_ they sang.

 _“No more let sins and sorrows grow, nor thorns infest the ground! He comes to make his blessings flow far as the curse is found,”_ Christine sang loudly.

 _“Far as the curse is found,”_ Erik sang.

 _“Far as, far as the curse is found,”_ they chanted.

 _“He rules the world with truth and grace, and makes the nations prove the glories of his righteousness and the wonders of his love,”_ Christine sang.

 _“And the wonders of his love,”_ Erik chanted.

 _“And wonders and wonders of his love,”_ they finished. Raoul clapped.

Erik had to admit to himself the last line he sang had worried him. He was talking about God directly. But since his vocal cords had not burst into flame, he figured it was safe even for a half-demon to sing songs about God as long as they were not insulting. Christine came over and turned the page. _“Silent Night,”_ Erik read. “Alright, Christine, this one’s all you. Ready?”

She nodded and he started to play. _“Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin, mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace,”_ Christine crooned, enjoying the combination of the soft harp and the softer lyrics. They went very well together as far as she was concerned. She sang the rest of the song with Erik’s harmonious accompaniment, almost falling into a peaceful trance.

“And she’s back!” Raoul declared, jumping up out of his seat. “You’ve finally gotten your voice back, Christine. How does it feel?” he declared, rushing over to envelop her in his arms.

Christine laughed as he spun her around in the air. “Amazing.”

Raoul put her back down and embraced her, glancing at the masked man seated at the harp over her shoulder. “Erik, we should probably pick out costumes before it gets too late.”

“Wait, one more song!” Christine protested, drawing back from the hug.

Raoul smiled. “Alright. Which one?”

Christine walked over to the music stand and started leafing through the pages again, finally settling on one particular selection. _“Jingle Bells,”_ she declared. Erik started to play the music. She let him play it one time through before she started singing. _“Dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh. Over the fields we go laughing all the way. Bells on bobtail ring, making spirits bright. What fun it is to laugh and sing a sleighing song tonight! O jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh-eigh. Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!”_ Raoul joined in when she was halfway through the song and they finished it off laughing together.

“That was really nice, Christine,” Raoul lauded. There really were no words to describe how happy it made him to hear his wife laughing again. “Okay, let’s go try on costumes and then we open presents,” he suggested. Erik promptly stood up and straightened up his jacket, whereas Christine seemed slightly disappointed that the music was over and lagged behind them. Raoul showed Erik to the large costume wardrobe which was located on the second floor. The room was divided in two based on gender. Men’s costumes were to the left and women’s to the right. The male selection ranged in the dozens. On the other hand, the female selection was smaller. Raoul had been collecting costumes much longer than Christine. Raoul picked out an outfit. “This one is based on the story of the Frog Prince,” he explained. It consisted of a formal suit and an elegantly carved green mask with a fancy gold crown. He put that one away and pointed to a suit of white metal that came with a two-handed sword at the end. “That’s a Sir Lancelot. I have a King Arthur too,” he said. He picked out another costume. “This is the Golden Goose.”

Erik made no response. Instead, he casually walked around examining each outfit and picking out white and light blue items here and there from different costumes. He even made a few selections from the women’s section, Raoul and Christine watching his every move in curiosity. “I will require a sewing kit and paint,” he announced once he had his arms full.

“What are you going to be?” Christine asked.

“Boreas.”

“Sounds like a good choice, Erik,” Raoul remarked, surprised and curious all at once. “I can’t hardly picture you as Father Christmas or the Nutcracker. I already have a Nutcracker costume that I’m going to adapt for a Tin Soldier to complement Christine’s Paper Ballerina.”

Christine looked excited. “Really? Oh, Raoul, that’ll be great. I can’t wait. Go back to the entrance hall, both of you. I’ll bring my sewing kit,” she declared, ushering them out.

All three of them met again in the entrance hall. Christine gave Erik her sewing kit and he got to work on his costume by the fire. However, Raoul interrupted him. “It’s time to open presents,” the vicomte declared, snatching away the sewing kit from Erik and setting it aside.

Erik guffawed. “My present to you is singing lessons for your niece then. Unwrap that.”

“And for Christine?” Raoul pressed, placing his hands on his hips.

The musician seemed to think a moment. “A song,” he said at last, leaning toward Christine.

She perked up. “What song?”

“A song of the season, of course,” Erik replied with a clever look, holding an open hand out toward her. He blew into his palm and sparkly paper snowflakes flew out of it, fluttering around the young soprano. Gasping at first, Christine started to laugh as she tried to catch one of the flakes. The magic trick exhilarated her. Once he had both Raoul and Christine’s undivided attentions, he jumped up and padded over to the large window with closed drapes overlooking the loggia. He threw open the drapes to reveal a blizzard outside. The window was cracked open, allowing a cold wind to blow into the room. The gale nipped at Christine and Raoul’s faces.

“Erik, what are you…?” Raoul began to protest, just before he noticed a creeping mist flood into the vast chamber from the crack in the window. _“How are you…?”_ he murmured as the swirling fog swept around the room, encircling him and Christine as well as the Christmas tree. As it came to touch them, they found the mist was cool but not cold. Erik stood about four feet from the window, his eyes locked with Christine’s. He held a hand parallel to the floor and lowered it slightly. The window followed suit, closing as if by magic, and the flood of mist stopped.

“Wintertime has its own breed of magic, distinct from the blossoming of spring,” Erik said, conjuring a daffodil between his thumb and forefinger. When he closed his hand and reopened it, the flower had vanished. “Or the golden transformations of autumn,” he continued, dropping what appeared to be a few dry orange leaves into the mist. “It’s always been my favorite season. The ice, the snow. If you head far enough up north, you even get the Aurora Borealis,” he finished, snapping his fingers. When he opened his palm again, a colorful hologram resembling the aforementioned phenomenon appeared above it. The illusion reflected off of the walls and columns, creating a stunning visual effect. Simultaneously, the gas lights in the room dimmed and the warmth of the firelight turned cold, casting a pale blue hue over the chamber.

Christine and Raoul started to turn and look all around the room as the environment mysteriously changed. “Seriously?” Raoul remarked, but Christine quickly shushed him. _“What?”_ he mouthed at her defensively. The genius’s spontaneous magic show was pretty alarming to him.

Erik smiled. “Winter must be special to you both as well. It’s when your childhood affections blossomed into love,” he said as the hologram of the polar lights merged into one of a beating red heart. “Right?” They nodded. Erik turned toward the soprano as he moved his fingers like tendrils, making the heart vanish. “ _Christine, Christine._ My Angel of Music. It’s been two years since I last saw you and I’ve missed you a great deal. It pains me to see you haven’t been thriving in my absence as I expected you to. I regret going so far away. Perhaps, I should have stuck around to watch over you for a while, but the truth is just this—I’m not an angel, just a fallible man of unusual ability. I don’t really have the power of foresight. I convinced myself that you would be able to excel on your own. Ever since you were that lost little girl, a poor orphaned ballet student who came to live in the opera house dormitories, I could not bear the sight of your suffering. I noticed it for the first time on one of my usual rounds. When I saw you there crying, I had to do something about it. I did what I could,” he spoke, his commanding voice transforming into its melodic counterpart, “ _I watched you grow, watched you glow like the North Star. I pushed you until you traveled so far. It all went to hell and you fell like a songbird with broken wings, all alone in the snow where the cold bites and stings.”_ He paused his song. “Does it not?” he asked earnestly. Christine bit her lip and nodded. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. When she nodded again, he added with a tone of sincerity, “I mean it. For everything that happened. I was blind.”

“It’s true, I would’ve been lost without you.” Christine wiped a tear from her cheek. “And you promise? You’ll never do those things again? You won’t kill?” she asked with timidity.

Erik shook his head with a solemn expression and swore, “Never again.” The promise made Christine’s whole face light up like the summer sun. The musician stepped closer to her. _“Snow Angel, Snow Angel, where do you go when ice freezes over and the sky doesn’t snow? The Angel of Music can’t find you refrain when your heart and spirit and voice have been slain. Though the cold winter grows, outside it now snows, it’s time to heal up and seal up the pain,”_ he crooned. From that point on, he sang to her of making reparations, of the cold and the stars and joy of the season. He hit all the high notes that brought her to utter euphoria and proved he was just as capable of entrancing her with his music as ever he had been. Though Raoul was in awe as well, jealousy gnawed at his core during the whole performance each time he glanced over at his wife and saw her reaction. He wished in his heart that he could have the same narcotic effect on her that the dark human enigma before them did. Once the song ended and the mist evaporated with a wave of the clever magician’s hand, the environment gradually returned to normal.

“That was amazing,” Christine murmured, breathless. “Thank you. Best Christmas gift ever.”

Erik nodded like it was nothing and then turned to Raoul. “Shall we move onto the boxed gifts?”

Raoul stared at the clever magician for an extended moment, his mouth agape. Gradually, he nodded, trying to shake off the effect of the impromptu performance. He was not too happy that Erik had so completely outclassed him, but then again he realized it was his own fault for challenging the man to give Christine a present. “Uh, yeah. Of course. Christine,” he began, awkwardly turning to his wife. “Let’s call in Babette. Perhaps she’d like to do the honors?”

Christine nodded and rose, walking to the wall. She rang the bell for her maid, who appeared soon after. “Babette,” Christine said, “you just missed the most amazing thing ever!” She turned back to Erik. “Would you do it again, please?!” she pleaded with big doe eyes.

Erik held up a hand. “Another time, I promise. I think your vicomte wants his turn.”

“Stop calling me that,” Raoul protested.

Christine, Raoul, and Erik were seated by the fireplace once again. Babette clapped her hands. “Whatever it is, I would love to see it whenever Monsieur Destler is ready. Bonne soirée, my friends!” she greeted them all, entering fully into the hall with a bundle of firewood balanced on her shoulder. “Oh là là, is it time to open gifts already? Alors, I’ve lost track of time.”

Christine smiled excitedly, sitting up straight and looking fully alert. “Could you start with the green one that has a big red bow to the left of the tree?” she requested, pointing.

“Oui, oui!” Babette replied, dropping the firewood by the chimney. She shuffled to the indicated gift and knelt down, reading the tag. “This is for Monsieur de Chagny from Madame. Oh, it’s big,” she said, hefting it up. “And heavy!” She brought it over to Raoul and placed it on his lap.

“Wow, Christine! What did you get me?” Raoul inquired, untying the bow.

“Look and find out,” Christine shot back with a smile, stubbornly folding her arms and legs. “I was kind of lazy about wrapping individual presents, so I put all of yours in one box. I hope you don’t mind,” she remarked. “I suspect that you’ll like what you find in there.”

Raoul unwrapped the large hardwood box and opened it to find a variety of masculine delicacies. Rare cognacs, brandies, cheeses, cigars, and even a neat mechanical gadget or two. He loved it all instantaneously. “Where did you get all these things?” he inquired, looking up at her.

“Our pageboy went on a little voyage for me. Well, make that a series of voyages. I’ve been collecting these things for six months, all for Christmas,” Christine admitted.

Raoul clipped off the ends of two Cuban cigars and offered one to Erik. The latter accepted his and the vicomte lit them both up with a single match. “Very nice,” Erik remarked. “I’ve never been huge into smoking, but this variety does come with an appealing flavor.”

“Smells divine too,” Babette added.

Raoul grinned as he took a puff. “Like a manly perfume,” he remarked, receiving a nod of agreement from the others. He had chosen himself a vicomtesse with fine taste indeed.

“Only the best for you, Raoul,” Christine cajoled.

“Alright. Next, I choose the box wrapped in brown paper tied with strings,” Raoul declared, pointing to the item tucked under the tree with the fuming tip of his cigar.

Babette hopped up and went to fetch it. “It says this one is for Madame from Monsieur.”

“Bring over the pink one by it too. Those are both for her,” Raoul spoke. He turned to Christine. “Your biggest gift from me for Christmas this year was Erik, naturally, but I thought you’d enjoy a few other things as well,” he said with a wink. “Especially knowing you have a sweet tooth.”

Christine perked up when he mentioned her sweet tooth, gladly accepting the items when Babette brought them to her. She pulled off the twine and tore off the brown wrapping paper of the first. “Chocolates!” she cried, tasting one. “Mmm, with custard filling. They’re delicious, Raoul.” She offered one to everyone else present, but only Erik and Babette took one.

“It is good. You have fine taste in confections, Vicomte,” Erik remarked, finishing the entire thing before he went back to puffing on his cigar. “Wherever did you buy them?”

“There you go again calling me Vicomte!” Raoul cried, pointing at him accusingly.

“Oh, right. Sorry, ‘Ra- _oul_ ,’” Erik quipped, giving the name an odd pronunciation. He tapped some of the ash off of his cigar into the fireplace, not caring in the least about the vicomte’s indignant expression. He merely flashed his younger comrade a pleasant grin.

Christine laughed again and went about opening her second gift. “Ooh, fine perfumes! Oh, you got all my favorite aromas!” she said cheerfully, looking through the bottles.

Raoul tapped his ear with the mouth-end of his cigar. “I’m a good listener.”

Christine spurted some of the lavender essence onto her wrist and smelled it, sighing in delight. “It’s wonderful. Oh, Babette, the white box on top of that big one is for you.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Babette replied, going to pick it up.

“There’s still a huge pile,” Erik noted.

Raoul nodded. “Most of those are for kin that we’re bringing to the castle tomorrow, the rest are for the servants. Oh, I almost forgot. Babette, go get Christine her _special_ gift,” he said, winking.

Christine’s eyes popped open in interest. “Oui, Monsieur,” Babette replied, returning the wink. She disappeared through the servants’ exit and came back two minutes later with a large basket in her arms that had a huge red bow tied around it. She set it down in front of Christine and the soprano saw a small pink piglet sleeping inside. The vicomtesse squealed in excitement.

“Raoul, oh my goodness… it’s adorable!” Christine raved, reaching in gently to pick the baby animal up. The contact caused the little pig to rouse and start grunting in curiosity.

Erik raised a brow as he glanced at the small creature. “You know,” he remarked, pointing his cigar toward the piglet. “I find it quite amusing that we literally just ate one of those.”

Raoul laughed. “This is a different breed, my friend. The one we ate for dinner was bred for meat, this one was bred to sniff out truffles. I’ve even paid for her training in advance.”

“A truffle-sniffing pig? Oh, wow!” Christine cried, holding the piglet up as it started to squeal lightly. “She’s beautiful. I love her! Thank you so much, Raoul!” she said graciously, hugging the piglet to her chest. “I think I’m going to call her Eclaire because she’s so sweet.”

“Interesting choice,” Erik remarked, tapping off the end of the cigar before taking another puff.

Raoul took another puff of his too. “Your gift from me is outside, Erik. So we can either freeze our arses off to go look at it or we can wait until tomorrow and see it on the way to the castle.”

Erik’s eyes popped open. A gift for him? He had not remotely been expecting one from anybody, let alone a former rival. Erik snapped to attention and sat up. “Wait, outside? What is it?”

“I’m not telling,” Raoul decreed. “You’ll have to see it for yourself.”

“But I don’t want to freeze my arse off!” Erik protested, evoking laughter from Christine and Babette. The former clapped a hand over her mouth in response to a side-glare from Erik.

Raoul shrugged. “Then I guess you’ll just have to wait,” he replied, casually checking out his fingernails as he flashed Erik a shit-eating grin. “You are a patient man, aren’t you?”

“Fine…” Erik grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait.”

Raoul nodded. “Good man.”

“I have something for you too, but you’re not getting it until we arrive at the castle,” Christine said, sampling her perfumes. “That’s what you get for not giving me time to wrap it.”

Erik was about to protest, but Raoul pulled out a book of Christmas stories. “Story time!” he declared. “Christine and I have a tradition of reading stories to each other on Christmas Eve. Due to our costumes, I thought I’d read _The Steadfast Tin Soldier_ by Hans Christian Andersen.”

Erik looked dissatisfied, but went to get the sewing kit back from where Raoul had put it earlier. He plopped down and got back to working on his costume. “Knock yourselves out.”

Raoul turned to the first page of the story as Christine curled up at his side to look at the pictures. He draped an arm around her. “There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers. They were all brothers, born of the same old tin spoon. They shouldered their muskets and looked straight ahead of them, splendid in their uniforms, all red and blue,” he began. “The very first thing in the world that they heard was, ‘Tin soldiers!’ A small boy shouted it and clapped his hands as the lid was lifted off their box on Christmas Day. He immediately set them up on the table.”

“Wait… this is a story about toys?” Erik interrupted, perturbed.

Raoul looked up at him. “Yes, of course. Human soldiers aren’t made out of tin.”

“I thought maybe they just wore tin,” Erik admitted.

Raoul shook his head. “Nope, they’re toys.” Erik chuckled. “What?”

The musician peered at them both with an entertained look on his face. “I find it amusing that you two are going to be dressed as toys for the gala. Will there be children present?”

“Amorette will be there. Beyond that, I don’t know. But who says adults don’t like toys too, eh?” Raoul contended. Erik raised a brow and shot the vicomte a look of skepticism.

“I like toys,” Christine interjected.

Erik rolled his eyes. “Christine, my dear. I haven’t seen you play with a single toy since you were ten.” Christine reached behind her and grabbed the Phantom plushie, holding it up in Erik’s face and squeezing it. He raised a finger in the air. “Until recently,” he corrected, narrowing a glare at the offending item. He was unsure how to feel about being reduced to stuffed animal proportions.

Christine squeezed it to her chest. “Christmas and toys are like escargot and butter.”

“May I continue?” Raoul interrupted. Erik signaled him to do so and the vicomte kept reading, “All the tin soldiers looked exactly alike except one. He looked a little different as he had been cast last of all. The tin was short, so he had only one leg as any of the other soldiers on their two. But just you see, he’ll be the remarkable one.” Erik blinked, suddenly interested. Wondering what could be so special about a deformed toy, he stopped sewing for a second to listen.

“On the table with the soldiers were many other playthings,” Raoul read, “and one that no eye could miss was a marvelous castle of cardboard. It had little windows through which you could look right inside it. And in front of the castle were miniature trees around a little mirror supposed to represent a lake. The wax swans that swam on its surface were reflected on the mirror. All this was very pretty but prettiest of all was the little lady who stood in the open doorway to the castle. Though she was a paper doll, she wore a dress of the fluffiest gauze. A blue ribbon went over her shoulder for a scarf, and in the middle of it shone a spangle that was as big as her face. The little lady held out both her arms, as a ballet dancer does, and one leg was lifted so high behind her that the tin soldier couldn’t see it at all, and he supposed she might have only one leg, as he did.”

“‘That would be a wife for me,’ he thought. ‘But maybe she’s too grand. She lives in a castle. I have only a box, with four-and-twenty roommates to share it. That’s no place for her. But I must try to make her acquaintance.’ Still as stiff as when he stood at attention, he lay down on the table behind a snuffbox, where he could admire the dainty little dancer who kept standing on one leg without ever losing balance,” Raoul read, licking a finger and turning the page.

“When the evening came the other tin soldiers were put away in their box, and the people of the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play among themselves at visits, and battles, and at giving balls. The tin soldiers rattled about in their box, for they wanted to play too, but they could not get the lid open. The nutcracker turned somersaults, and the plate pencil squeaked out jokes on the slate. The toys made such a noise that they woke up the canary bird, who made them a speech, all in verse. The only two who stayed still were the tin soldier and the little dancer. Without ever swerving from the tip of one toe, she held out her arms to him, and the tin soldier was just as steadfast on his one leg. Not once did he take his eyes off her.”

“Then the clock struck twelve and—crack!—up popped the lid of the snuffbox. But there was no snuff in it, no—out bounced a little black bogey, a jack-in-the-box. ‘Tin soldier,’ he said. ‘Will you please keep your eyes to yourself?’ The tin soldier pretended not to hear. The bogey said, ‘Just you wait till tomorrow.’ But when morning came, and the children got up, the soldier was set on the window ledge. And whether the bogey did it, or there was a sudden gust of wind, all of a sudden the window flew open and the soldier pitched out headlong from the third floor. He fell at breathtaking speed and landed cap first, with his bayonet buried between the paving stones and his one leg stuck straight up in the air. The housemaid and the little boy ran down to look for him and, though they nearly stepped on the tin soldier, they walked right past without seeing him. If the soldier had called, ‘Here I am!’ they would surely have found him, but he thought it contemptible to raise an uproar while he was wearing his uniform,” the vicomte spoke.

“Soon it began to rain. The drops fell faster and faster, until they came down by the bucketful. As soon as the rain let up, along came two young rapscallions. ‘Hi, look!’ one of them said. ‘There’s a tin soldier. Let’s send him sailing.’ They made a boat out of newspaper, put the tin soldier in the middle of it, and away he went down the gutter with the two young rapscallions running beside him and clapping their hands. High heavens! How the waves splashed, and how fast the water ran down the gutter. Don’t forget that it had just been raining by the bucketful. The paper boat pitched, and tossed, and sometimes it whirled about so rapidly that it made the soldier’s head spin. But he stood as steady as ever. Never once flinching, he kept his eyes front, and carried his gun shoulder-high. Suddenly the boat rushed under a long plank where the gutter was boarded over. It was as dark as the soldier’s own box,” Raoul read, voicing each character.

“‘Where can I be going?’ the soldier wondered. ‘This must be that black bogey’s revenge. Ah! if only I had the little lady with me, it could be twice as dark here for all I would care.’ Out popped a great water rat who lived under the gutter plank. ‘Have you a passport?’ said the rat. ‘Hand it over.’ The soldier kept quiet and held his musket tighter. On rushed the boat, and the rat came right after it, gnashing his teeth as he called to the sticks and straws: ‘Halt him! Stop him! He didn’t pay his toll! He hasn’t shown his passport.’ But the current ran stronger and stronger. The soldier could see daylight ahead where the board ended, but he also heard a roar that would frighten the bravest of us. Hold on! Right at the end of that gutter plank the water poured into the great canal. It was as dangerous to him as a waterfall would be to us,” he continued.

“He was so near it he could not possibly stop. The boat plunged into the whirlpool. The poor tin soldier stood as staunch as he could, and no one can say that he so much as blinked an eye. Thrice and again the boat spun around. It filled to the top—and was bound to sink. The water was up to his neck and still the boat went down, deeper, deeper, deeper, and the paper got soft and limp. Then the water rushed over his head. He thought of the pretty little dancer whom he’d never see again, and in his ears rang an old, old song: ‘Farewell, farewell, O warrior brave. Nobody can from Death thee save.’ And now the paper boat broke beneath him, and the soldier sank right through. And just at that moment he was swallowed by a most enormous fish.”

“My! how dark it was inside that fish. It was darker than under the gutter-plank and it was so cramped, but the tin soldier still was staunch. He lay there full length, soldier fashion, with musket to shoulder. Then the fish flopped and floundered in a most unaccountable way. Finally it was perfectly still, and after a while something struck through him like a flash of lightning. The tin soldier saw daylight again, and he heard a voice say, ‘The Tin Soldier!’ The fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and brought to a kitchen where the cook cut him open with her big knife. She picked the soldier up bodily between two fingers, and carried him off upstairs.”

“Everyone wanted to see this remarkable traveler who had traveled in a fish’s stomach, but the tin soldier took no pride in it. They put him on the table and—lo and behold, what curious things can happen in this world—there he was, back in the same room as before. He saw the same children, the same toys were on the table, and there was the same fine castle with the pretty little dancer. She still balanced on one leg, the other raised high. She too was steadfast. That touched the soldier so deeply that he would have cried tin tears, only soldiers never cry. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and never a word needed to be said,” Raoul finished, closing the book.

“Does that mean they got together?” Erik inquired, turning back to his sewing.

“Yes,” Raoul replied, setting the book aside. He did not care to read the true ending of the story, which was a little too grim for the Christmas occasion. The unfortunate part about the blazing furnace was unnecessary as far as the vicomte was concerned. He settled into the cushion more and held Christine. “So, is it true that I don’t get to see your paper tutu until tomorrow?”

“That’s right,” Christine confirmed.

The grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed, signaling that it was an hour until midnight. “Time for Christmas Eve Mass,” Raoul announced. He turned to Babette.

“Mass?” Erik inquired.

Raoul nodded. “Yes, we’re going to the cathedral. It’s a tradition!”

“I’m not going to any cathedral!” Erik protested.

“I didn’t say you had to,” Raoul replied.

Christine pouted. “Why won’t you go, Angel? Too tired?”

Erik thought a minute and nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I’d rather go to bed.”

Raoul turned to Christine. “The mask would be an issue. Masks can be worn at the galas, but it would be odd to wear one in church,” he indicated to her. She looked disappointed. The vicomte turned to Babette. “Can you check to see if Erik’s room is ready?” he requested.

“It is, Monsieur. I saw earlier,” the maid confirmed. “I can show him to his room now, if he would like.” She turned to Erik. “It’s right next to the master bedroom upstairs with a balcony and windows overlooking the fields. I think you will like it, Monsieur Destler.”

Everyone rose to their feet.

“Goodnight, Erik,” Raoul said. “If you need anything that the servants can’t provide, then please wake me up once we get back from Mass. You are my guest and I want you to be comfortable.”

Erik glanced briefly at the floor, put his hands in his pockets, and then nodded. He did not think he would have any trouble sleeping per se, but it was nice to know that in case he did Raoul was still available to help. It rather surprised Erik when Christine strode up to him and embraced him again. When she drew back, she snatched him by the collar and pulled his head down so she could plant a kiss on the unmasked side of his face. “Goodnight, and thank you for coming.”

Erik flashed her a grin as he straightened up. “Thank you for having me. See you both in the morning,” he finished, watching as the couple put on their cloaks to head out.

Babette waited for Erik to finish gathering his stuff. “This way, Monsieur. Right at the end of the gallery,” she said, leading him up a grand staircase to the second floor gallery. She took a right turn and then a left and stopped in front of a grand doorway. “This is the master bedroom,” she explained and then led him to another grand doorway only fractionally smaller at the end of the gallery. She pulled the handle of the door open and showed him inside. “All the bedrooms in this chateau come with their own bath and dressing room,” she explained as he entered.

The room was warm and illuminated with candles and firelight from the chimney and the walls were intricately painted. The color theme was gold and ebony laced with burgundy drapes on all the windows. The canopied bed itself bore burgundy drapes and linens. Erik quickly kicked off his shoes and jumped up on the bed, sprawling out on his back. It was immensely comfortable.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath, sir?” Babette inquired.

Erik shook his head. “In the morning. When is breakfast served?”

“Eight,” Babette replied.

“I’ll have a bath after breakfast.”

Babette nodded. She gave him a nightshirt and added wood to the fire, asking if he needed anything before she left. He shook his head. The maid was about to leave through the door, but she stopped and glanced back at Erik. “Thank you for coming. I’ve been really worried about Madame. I can already tell she will recover. Tonight, she was happier than I’ve ever seen her.” Erik flashed her a smile. She smiled back before gently closing the door behind her.

The tired musician hopped up and locked the door before he threw off his clothes and put on the nightshirt. He went into the bathroom to brush and floss his teeth thoroughly before heading to bed. Last of all, he took his mask and wig off and set them on the nightstand. He had not gotten to sleep without his porcelain shield in a long time. Finally, he was able to feel fully comfortable as he stretched out on the bed and sank beneath the fluffy blankets, falling asleep in minutes.


End file.
